


Love in the Time of COVID-19

by DarkShadows_EvilMind



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, Angst and Humor, Current Events, Eddie Kaspbrak Cheats on Myra Kaspbrak, Eddie Kaspbrak Lives, Eddie Kaspbrak is a Mess, Idiots in Love, Inappropriate Humor, Light Angst, Love Confessions, M/M, Pandemics, References to Depression, Richie Tozier Loves Eddie Kaspbrak, Richie Tozier is a Little Shit
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-16
Updated: 2020-04-17
Packaged: 2021-03-01 01:54:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 27,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23167312
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarkShadows_EvilMind/pseuds/DarkShadows_EvilMind
Summary: As the Coronavirus sweeps across the nation, closing businesses and inciting panic, Eddie is prepared to hunker down and ride out the chaos at home with his wife. That was the plan, anyway, until Richie shared a photo of himself licking the button of an arcade game with the caption: "Goodbye, Cruel World!" Now, Eddie can't sleep at night knowing his best friend is out there committing Suicide by Corona. He has to save him!---Richie was minding his own damned business when boxes of canned goods and cleaning supplies started being delivered to his condo in Eddie Kaspbrak's name. It made a lot more sense when Eddie showed up a day or two later. Kind of... Was he a third world country in possession of oil, 'cause it looked like he was about to getsaved.
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Myra Kaspbrak, Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 35
Kudos: 127





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Stop me if you've heard this one before... 
> 
> I have found one fic in this fandom on this subject so far and I am shooketh! Additional tags include: Richie Trying To Add Some Levity To This Shit, Richie Thinks It's All A Conspiracy And Eddie Isn't Having It, and Richie Is A Californian At Heart. 
> 
> I'm not following real life timelines. COVID-19 AU 'cause this shit's too crazy to keep up with without going crazy. A lot of my friends are out of work over this. Wash your hands and stay safe, kids! By the end of this fic, hopefully we've all stayed alive long enough to see Eddie and Richie need to wash more than that.

Eddie nodded to himself, smiling in an almost twisted satisfaction at his stockpile of goods all neatly arranged on shelves and (those that were too bulky) stacked along the walls of his first floor spare room. There was a benefit to being a risks analyst married to an extreme couponer. At the moment, that benefit presented itself as a nearly four year supply of all the items and goods that people were killing each other over. 

Toilet paper? He and Myra had to have at least a thousand rolls. Paper towels, much the same. He had Clorox wipes and hand sanitizer and all the cleaning supplies known to man by the dozens. He had a reserve of non-perishable food items so dense that one of the shelves in their spare room looked like an aisle at the grocery store. Canned veggies, canned soup, canned fruit, canned meat. He had a deep freezer humming away in the corner storing steaks and chicken (whole and breasts) and more veggies. 

Come Hell or high water, zombie apocalypse or COVID-19, he and his wife were prepared. The stockpile had existed since they first bought the house. Myra had brought up her couponing dozens of times on dates and after they’d married, but never mentioned how _good she was at it._ Not until they had a house with room for storage. Eddie and Myra didn’t even have to leave the house for a rare treat of a canned soda. That was in the stockpile, too, no long lines at the register or fist fights over shopping carts required.

Who’s laughing now? Eddie thought to himself as he sneered at his hoard. Everyone in the Losers’ Club made fun of him for his stockpile, Richie especially who seemed to take great pride in making jabs at Myra. He bet they envied him now when they ran out of bath tissue and found out the rest of the damned world had gone crazy and bought it all. 

That being said, Eddie didn’t want to see any of his friends get sick and _die._ There was a fucking pandemic on the horizon and he couldn’t just sit back and let his friends fall victim to the mass hysteria. 

After admiring his stockpile a moment or two longer, Eddie set to work. He carried in four empty cardboard boxes, three small and one large, and set them in the middle of the room. One for Richie. One for Bill. One for Mike. The larger box would be for Ben and Bev, since they were cohabiting now. Eddie couldn’t bring himself to skimp on their care packages just because they were living together, nor did he want to shell out twice the postage to mail two boxes to the same address.

In each box he placed a roll of precious TP—the good kind, not the one-ply, sandpaper shit—a regular sized and a mini sized bottle of hand sanitizer, a tube of Clorox wipes, toothbrush a paste set, shampoo and conditioner (generic of Ben’s, women’s fancy stuff for Bev), a box of disposable gloves, a box of Emergen-C, and a box of face masks. (He only had one carton left for himself after packaging up the care packages, and that was scary, but in time—in time, he told himself—the suppliers would have time to make more and he could get his hands on another box.) 

Aside from Ben and Bev getting twice the supplies and the women’s hair care products, Richie’s was the only one that differed. First, he got the cheap Angel Soft lavender scented TP (two rolls, because one roll of this shit was basically a third of a regular roll), a huge bottle of sanitizer, and a pack of women’s safety razors. Those were accented with a neon-green sticky note which read, “In case you get shut in and decide to fix your disaster of a beard.” Eddie had seen him on television (okay, okay, he watched his segment on his phone while sitting on the can because Myra found it ‘offensive’ and he couldn’t get a moment of privacy to watch it anywhere else) the week before and couldn’t help but notice the godawful state his typically unshaven face was in. It was like he hadn’t even trimmed his face in days—not even to keep it in line and from being unruly. Not even a trim! He looked awful and it was embarrassing to tell people he was Richie’s friend when he let himself look like _that!_ If he couldn’t be bothered to take care of his appearance, then he definitely wasn’t taking care of his health, either. 

That was why his box was also adorned with a letter that said, “Hi, Dipshit. I didn’t fucking save you from a Killer Clown so you could fucking die from COVID-19. Wash your fucking hands. Sincerely, Eddie.”

If he got weird looks while dropping off his boxes at the UPS Store with safety glasses and a mask on his face and gloves on his hands, he didn’t care. Coronavirus was _not_ going to kill him. No sir! He did not have a near death experience in a sewer, four surgeries, and a brush with sepsis just to get sick and die in a pandemic less than four years later. 

And none of his friends would either!

Or so he’d hoped…

After getting chewed out by Myra when she realized _her_ stockpile had been cut into, and that he’d risked his life and _her_ health by going out in the city to ship the boxes, he really hoped it would all be worth it. He’d better not hear about any of his friends being in the media for Coronavirus.

It was no surprise to him at all when his care package, so carefully put together and personalized, ended up on Richie’s professional Instagram page in a three part photo post. The first was just a picture of the box with the letter about their Killer Clown removed but the unreadable sticky note still in place, the second was a closeup of the scented TP, and the third was the sticky note and razors. 

“Friends Don’t Let Friends Go Paperless!” And among the hashtags were #GreatTPShortage2020, #MyFriendsAreCoolerThanYourFriends, #MyBeardIsWeird, and #MyShitDontStink.

Eddie received little messages from the other Losers to express their gratitude—except for Richie who only texted him to say, “I used that TP and now I have a rash in my asscrack. Make of that what you will.”

Richie’s ceaseless sense of humor could hardly cut through the tension Eddie felt as the days bled on, though. Things seemed to be getting worse. There was talk of a rising domestic death toll, talk of closing businesses, talk of sending people to work from home. Italy was in crisis and the US was vastly unprepared for what was happening. 

Meanwhile, Richie Tozier was on Instagram sharing photos of himself holding out his tongue beneath a hand sanitizer pump like he was trying to catch the last bit on his tongue like a damned snowflake. (He did fix his beard though and it was back to his usual, scruffy mess. Thank God for small miracles.)

“Is this an acceptable form of Alcoholism?” was Richie’s caption for that one.

A day later and events were being canceled and banned nationwide. Myra had gone into full-blown panic mode, going so far as to yell at Eddie for setting up his work laptop too close to the window as if Coronavirus was going to blow in with the rain.

She had strong-armed their pharmacist into getting Eddie a stockpile of medications to go along with their stockpile of food and cleaners. He had enough meds to last three months in quarantine—which was right where Myra wanted him. He felt safer in the house than he did out on the streets with all those people—infected with COVID-19 or no—but it was getting a bit...much to be stuck in the house just with her. 

Had she always nagged so much? Why did she act like he was going to catch COVID-19 through the phone? Eddie had started spending more and more time in the bathroom, sitting on the closed lid of the toilet, just so he could text his friends. 

He was worried about them. Not so much B’s (good old Ben and Bev and Bill), but Mike who was lower income and still poking around Maine like it had something more to offer...and Richie who didn’t seem to take any of this seriously.

When the news anchor on TV dropped the bombshell in the middle of their blanket COVID-19 coverage that Richie Tozier was the latest celebrity to cancel his upcoming events due to the Coronavirus outbreak, Eddie felt his stomach drop. It was for the greater good, but Richie had been going on about his tour for months. He had gotten tickets for everyone so they could all meet up in New York and spend time together, and now it had been ripped away. Eddie didn’t even know he was looking forward to the April 18th show date until it was no longer happening. 

“That’s a shame...” he said, frowning at the television.

“What’s a shame?”

“Richie. He had to cancel his shows,” Eddie said, gesturing to the TV while looking over at Myra who was filing her nails...showering her baby blue blouse in micro-particles of dead cells. It made Eddie queasy. 

“Good. The less of that noxious filth he babbles being spewed into the world, the better,” Myra said, passing Eddie a look that was dangerously close to one of his mother’s. It was a look that said ‘drop it.’ A look that warned him not to speak any further on the subject unless he wanted to settle in for a lecture.

It also felt a little bit like jealousy. Ever since he’d run away to Derry, she’d been...different. Ever since he told her had to leave, he had to help his friends, she’d treated him more possessively—or maybe, Eddie sometimes thought, he’d just started to notice it. Myra was his wife, and he’d hoped the eight-thousand dollar ring on her finger proved how much she meant to him. But even that wasn’t enough to stop her from showing her dislike for his friends—showing her dislike for the fact that he _had_ friends. Friends that he didn’t meet through her, anyway. 

And of all his friends, she hated Richie the most. Not Beverly—strong, beautiful, charismatic Beverly. No, Myra hated Rich…

Richie who, hours after his tour cancellation was mentioned, shared a photo to Instagram that made Eddie’s heart stop in his chest. It made his stomach clench. It made his head spin and his hand clutch desperately for his inhaler as he sank down onto the cold tile floor from the toilet seat. 

“Had to cancel my shows. Now there’s only one thing left to do… Goodbye, Cruel World!” set beneath a photo of him licking the button on an arcade game. 

Licking it.

Putting a piece of public equipment in his mouth.

Suicide by COVID-19.

Eddie, still trying to get enough medication in his lungs to breathe, felt his heart begin pounding.

Surely that picture was staged, right? He’d disinfected the red button—the whole surface of the console, probably—and then licked it, right? Richie wouldn’t purposefully infect himself in the middle of a pandemic...would he? 

It was fake. He wasn’t really going to…

Eddie laid in bed that night, staring at the ceiling while his mind raced alongside his heart. Bill’s voice screaming at him, haunting him all the way from the house on Neibolt. 

“He could’ve fucking died, man! You know that, right? Georgie’s dead! The kid’s dead! Stanley’s dead! Do you want Richie, too!?”

No. No, he _didn’t_ want Richie dead, too.

He had to do something… He had to make sure Richie was taking this _seriously._ It was a global fucking pandemic! More and more people were infected and _dying_ every single day!

Eddie rolled over, trying desperately to silence Bill’s voice by covering his head with his pillow.

“He could’ve fucking died, man! You know that, right?”

No…

“You want Richie, too!?”

_No._

What he _wanted_ was for Richie to start taking this seriously. Because it was pretty fucking serious. There were food shortages and no cleaning supplies on the shelves…

God, Richie could end up starving. He could end up sick and quarantined with no supplies to live off of. He didn’t take this seriously, so he probably hadn’t stocked up on anything except liquor. He was out there in LA, completely unprepared.

“He could’ve fucking died, man!”

Even Myra’s loud snoring wasn’t enough to drown out Bill’s desperate voice. 

“You know that, right?”

Richie’s tongue caressing that filthy, greasy button of the arcade game. 

“He could’ve fucking d—”

Eddie’s eyes snapped open and he glared toward Myra’s noisy, sleeping form beside him. 

He couldn’t let this happen. This wasn’t about to be Neibolt House Round Two. Richie was in danger and Eddie was going to save him.

Eddie threw off his blankets and stormed out of his bedroom, not surprised in the slightest with Myra didn’t wake up. She never did. Slept like a rock. Slept through his nightmares and panic attacks and an asthma attack that _literally_ could have killed him since he couldn’t find his inhaler that night.

Whenever Eddie woke himself up in a panic at the hospital in Derry, Richie was always right there. Richie would hold his hand. Richie would tell him it was alright. Richie didn’t just sit there in the hospital chair snoring away. 

Richie had been there for him, and Eddie was going to return the favor.

Eddie was going to _save_ him if it was the last thing he did. And considering his shitty fucking immune system and the fact that it was the end of the world, it probably fucking would be.

Richie Tozier was going to be the death of him.


	2. Chapter 2

Richie stared down at the box in front of his door, blinking at it hard in the mid-morning sun. His eyes hurt from being startled awake by a fucking cop knock after an all night bender that ended after eight in the morning. The box was a decent size. Probably 16X16X16. Or maybe 18X18X18. It was definitely a perfect square. That was what Richie noticed first. Big square box. Big, white, square box. 

That had Edward Kaspbrak written on it.

Richie blinked _really_ hard as he stared down at it.

Eddie?

He looked over his shoulder, as if he expected to see his friend standing there. He definitely didn’t remember Eddie drinking with him last night. Then again, he hardly remembered anything else beside getting part of his dick caught in his zipper and passing out on the floor of his bathroom after curling up in a ball from the pain.

Luckily he’d unjammed the zipper before passing out. No amputation necessary. 

Richie stared at the box for a good minute or two, then reached out his foot in an attempt to scoot the box up over the door frame to avoid having to lean down to pick it up. Unfortunately, it felt like his friend spent a fortune to ship him a box of bricks because the thing didn’t even _budge._ Richie whined to himself in self-pity over his aching head as he leaned down and hoisted the box up, almost falling over from his sleepiness and drunken discoordination. 

Fucker weighed nine-hundred pounds!

Made sense, too, Richie realized when his patience wore out two minutes after texting Eddie to ask what the fuck it was and he tore into the package. He couldn’t get his hands to work the drawers of his kitchen to pull out scissors, so he ended up tearing the cardboard apart to get a peak inside. 

This led to a loud clatter of canned food onto his floor—damned near chipped the tiles, too!

Richie made himself a margarita while he tried to make sense of it. Maybe it was another care package…

Maybe Eddie had the Hoaxa-virus and accidentally shipped the package in his own name instead of Richie’s. Richie had no clue, but two margs into his All Night Bender Pt. 2 and Richie was eating Tortellini Soup right out of the dented can while staring at the news. The number of Cheap Beer-Virus cases had doubled overnight. Mass panic. Mass hysteria. No TP. 

Riots at the grocery store.

“Whole world’s gone mad,” Richie said to himself, still shoveling cold soup into his mouth in between sips of watery margarita. 

A day later, more loud pounding that, this time, startled him and made him fall down the last three steps of his carpeted stairs. His protein shake ended up in a messy, gloopy spatter all over his hallway. 

Two more boxes. Smaller. Still for Edward Kaspbrak.

Was it still a felony to open someone else’s mail if it was shipped FedEx and for a friend? And delivered to your address?

Richie didn’t know, but he was now the proud owner of a buttload of protein bars and non-perishable snacks. And a fuckload of cleaning supplies.

_You’re taking this way too seriously,_ he texted Eddie—who still hadn’t answered from yesterday. Probably sulking because Richie’s response wasn’t to shower him in praises. He could do that, sure, but it was more fun to watch Eddie squirm and pout. 

After that, he called Bev to see if she’d gotten any of their weird stuff. When her response was to oddly giggle at him and whisper something to Ben before saying, “No. Nope, none of that here. Guess you’re special,” Richie quickly got off the phone and swapped out the remainder of his protein shake for a bottle of Budweiser. 

He was thinking hard about cracking open a second bottle and drowning his boredom and loneliness with the rest of his six-pack when a much less forceful knock sounded on his front door. 

What this time, he wondered. The HOA sticking another flier onto his condo to let him know not to visit common areas? A representative of the CDC letting him know he was now on involuntary quarantine?

Girl Scout? He could totally slam a box of Thin Mints right now. 

“Fuck, you’re not a Girl Scout,” Richie said when he opened the door only to come face to...face mask? with Eddie.

“Sorry to fuck with your pervy-ass fantasy. Now shut the hell up and put this under your tongue.” Eddie was dressed in something just short of a hazmat suit. It wasn’t hot today, not even close, but Eddie was still sweating in his white hoodie, safety glasses, face mask...gloves…ripped jeans? Hello, that was new. He was also holding up a thermometer that he clearly wanted to stick in Richie’s mouth. 

“I could think of something a lot better to—” His words were turned into a startled choke as the thermometer was speared into his tongue and then jabbed under it. 

“Shut up. For the next thirty seconds, just shut the fuck up, asshole.”

Richie’s eyes went wide as he concentrated on keeping the uncomfortable spear of metal and plastic under his tongue. Eddie was glaring at him, those brown doe eyes all angry and huffy where they were hidden behind clear safety glasses.

Were they a wimpy sneeze shield for his eyes or were they meant to remind him not to touch them so he wouldn’t spread any contagion he came in contact with? Either way, he looked fucking ridiculous. 

But those ripped jeans though… 

It wasn’t that Richie was staring at his legs or anything—they were nothing new. He practically spent their entire childhood running around in short-shorts and his scrawny little chicken legs were nothing to be impressed by or jealous of by any stretch. Just… How was Eddie walking around with his knees and part of his upper thigh exposed when their was a pandemic going on? Wasn’t he scared of his thigh needing amputated for Corona-exposure?

Richie realized he was still staring at the peek of Eddie’s white thigh through the shredded, dark denim when the thermometer in his mouth beeped and Eddie was yanking it from between his teeth.

“What’s the word, Dr. K? Do we need to amputate?” Richie watched Eddie’s eyes as his friend stared at the little digital screen on the thermometer. 

“Well, you don’t have a fever.”

“Oh, but I do! But it only flares on Saturday nights.” He tried to imitate a little disco move, only to have Eddie turn and walk away from him. 

“I don’t have time for your shit right now, asshole,” Eddie said, making his way toward his car.

His car! His car with fucking New York tags. Did he seriously _drive here_ from NYC!? 

“Are you gonna help me or stand there with your thumb up your ass!?” He shouted, hauling a large black suitcase out of the backseat of his Cadillac SUV. A moment later and Richie was helping him unload another just like it, and then three carry-on sized bags as well. 

“Are you ever gonna tell me what the fuck you’re doing here? I mean, Cali is nice, but isn’t the old Ball and Chain worried about you being off on your own? Her little bird leaving the nest?”

“Fuck off,” was Eddie’s only answer as he gathered his bags into a little cluster by Richie’s kitchen counter. 

He helped himself to a glass out of Richie’s cupboard, hand washed it, then filled it with water from the tap and gulped it down—only to refill it and swallow half the glass, Adam’s apple bobbing up and down along his tanned, stubble-covered throat.

_“Fuck!”_ Eddie sighed as he set down the cup, gasping for air after drinking non-stop. He took a hit from the inhaler in his pocket, then gripped onto the counter as if he were about to pass out. 

“You gonna tell me why you decided to show up at Hotel D’Richie without making a reservation?” Richie asked, trying not to trace the beads of sweat rolling down Eddie’s throat with his eyes. 

“That depends. Are _you_ going to tell me why the _fuck_ you were licking the buttons of that filthy fucking arcade game!?” He was mad. Honest to God, red-in-the-face mad! Richie couldn’t help the honk of a laugh that shot out of his throat. “What, you think that’s funny, asshole!? People are fucking _dying,_ Rich! _You_ could die!”

“I could get the flu, too, and die from that. Calm down, Eds—” Richie was still laughing, his eyes practically tearing up from it. 

“I will not calm down! And don’t call me Eds! I’ve told you ten thousand fucking times not to call me that!”

“Eddie—Eddie, calm down! Before you give yourself a damned heart attack. Jesus Christ.”

“How do you expect me to calm down!? We’re in the middle of a goddamned _pandemic!_ We’re in the middle of a pandemic and you’re out here fucking licking things like an idiot!”

“Okay, first off, this whole thing is getting blown _way_ out of proportion, okay?”

“Okay, fuckface, let’s get one thing straight,” Eddie snapped, his eyes getting dark from how angry he was. _“You_ probably wouldn’t die if you caught it. No, you and your self-centered little bubble of good-health would be fucking fine. But if _I_ get exposed, I’m going to die! I have fucking asthma! I’m immunocompromised! I’ll be dead!” 

Fair point, and Richie couldn’t argue it. Even so, the thought of Eddie dying made his stomach churn and Richie found himself eyeing his fridge, wanting to go for a beer but knowing it’d probably lead to a continuation of this fight which _really_ didn’t need elongated, all things considered.

“So...if you think I’m out here _actually_ licking doorknobs and shit, what the fuck are you doing here?”

“Saving your fucking life, asshole! You might think this is all some big joke, but you could’ve died! You could have caught the fucking Coronavirus from that damned arcade! Lived the rest of your life on a fucking ventilator! What were you thinking!?”

“Eddie, I haven’t left my house since they shut down the studio and my tour got canceled. That Street Fighter game is in my fucking game room. Chill out, man,” Richie tacked on, giving up and going to his fridge for the beer. Eddie was staring at him, looking absolutely gobsmacked. 

“So… So wait. What?” All his fight, all his enthusiasm and energy and rage, all just bled out of him. Eddie was left standing there with those huge eyes peering at Richie in confusion and shock, like someone had just told him Santa was real after all. 

“I said I haven’t left my house in almost a week. And I definitely didn’t go to an arcade. So, thanks for the lecture, but neither of us are dying, Eds. Except of alcohol poisoning—you want a beer?” 

Eddie stammered a moment, then proclaimed that _yes,_ he deserved one after coming all this way. He’d had to sleep at truck stops and live off of nut-free, gluten-free protein bars that tasted like cardboard all because Richie was a “stupid fucking idiot.”

“You’re the one who drove all the way out here without asking me first. I mean, why the fuck didn’t you call? Why didn’t you answer my texts? I sent you, like, forty memes, dude.”

“Probably because I was _fucking driving_ and you kept sending me memes! Don’t you realize that the number one cause of accidents is distracted driving? I was trying to _save you,_ asshole. Not get myself fucking killed!”

“If you thought I was out here licking shit off the streets, what the fuck did you think was going to happen? I’d definitely have your Big Scary Virus. Then you’d get it and die. So what the hell are you doing here?” Richie asked. He didn’t mean for it to come across as angry or sound like he didn’t want to see his best friend, but the look on Eddie’s face made it seem like that’s what he’d done. Eddie looked like Richie had slapped him. 

“I didn’t want you to die out here all alone,” he said, yanking the bottle of beer out of Richie’s hand when it was offered to him and cracking it open against the counter. 

“Guess that means we get to die together,” Richie teased before taking a swig of beer. Wasn’t that the dream? 

“Fuck you, asshole. No one’s dying. I know you got the boxes I sent. Where the fuck did you put it?”

“Put it? I sold that shit. Food shortages—sanitizer shortages. Shit sold for two hundred bucks a pop!” 

Eddie’s face went slack with horror and Richie busted out laughing again. This was going to be way too much fun.

“Nah, dude. I put it away. Believe it or not, clutter makes me anxious. Especially with being stuck in the house all day.” He showed Eddie where he put the food and the cleaning supplies, both of them sucking down beer after beer while Richie showed him the condo like he hadn’t been here before. 

He had, once, just to drop by while on vacation with Myra. She gave Richie a death glare the entire time and cut their visit short. Like, twenty minutes total hangout time after not seeing each other for two years short. Jealous, controlling bitch. 

Speaking of…

“Does your wife even know you’re here?” Richie asked as they finished hauling the last of Eddie’s luggage up to the spare room. By the looks of how much he’d packed, he’d left the woman for good. But Richie knew not to get his hopes up. 

“Eh, you know. It’s...it’s complicated,” Eddie said, not looking at Richie. He was fussing with his suitcase, unzipping one of the pouches and pretending to look for something before zipping it back up.

“What the fuck does that mean?” Richie asked, huffing a little before taking a swig of beer. 

“You know, with the quarantine and everything.”

“Yeah… _And?”_

“I told her...I told her it’d be safer if we quarantined in separate houses. In case, you know, one of us gets exposed. Better to be...alone.”

“And then you came _here?”_ Richie asked, trying to bite back the smirk that threatened to overcome his lips.

“Well, she would’ve lost her shit if she knew I was coming to California. I had to disable all the tracking and location stuff on my phone just so she wouldn’t find out. I’ve got it set to say I’m in Manhattan.”

“Dude, if you were a woman saying this, I’d be obligated to go kill your husband. Just sayin’. That’s some Tom Rogan level shit.”

“My wife is nothing like Beverly’s ex, alright? She just _worries.”_

“Yeah. Just like Mrs. Ks should,” Richie teased, earning a hateful glare from his friend. 

“Fuck you, asshole.”

“Come on, you and I both know having a location app on your phone so she can keep tabs on you is creepy.”

“It’s in case I have an asthma attack and die somewhere.” They bickered a while about it, Richie not really caving to agree that it was normal and Eddie not backing down on his end either. It lasted long past the time Eddie was unpacked, up until he was demanding a bath towel and to be shown where to find the restroom. 

So while Eddie showered and shaved off three days of living-in-his-car gunk, Richie made his way down to his living room and curled up on the couch. He couldn’t bring himself to turn on the TV, knowing it’d just be more blanket coverage of the pandemic outside. He was about to hear enough about that already from his hypochondriac friend. 

Still, it made him feel good—just the smallest bit warm inside—that Eddie had (as far as he was concerned) risked life and limb to travel all the way from New York to California just to make sure Richie was taken care of. 

Good old Mrs. K was about to be pissed as _fuck._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you're all doing well out there. I just lost both of my jobs and live in a city facing up for total lockdown. Remember that grocery stores and shipping companies are in desperate need of employees! Target and UPS both extended interviews to me within minutes of applying online. Keep the TP, keep the faith!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Howdy, y'all! This chapter gets a little...saucey!

His first night in Richie’s house was...awkward, to say the _very_ least. Eddie did his best to hide his mortification upon finding out that the whole reason he’d driven out here was a farce. Richie showed him the Street Fighter console he had in his lower-level “Game Room.” The idiot was so proud of that stupid game, even though the buttons were worn down and the machine had graffiti carved into one side. 

“See? ‘Donnie sucks big fat dick.’ Isn’t that _hilarious!?”_

“Yeah, if you’re in tenth grade,” Eddie had snapped back. Why did Richie even _buy_ this thing? Eddie had never understood Richie’s fascination with the arcade or all it’s gross, slimy buttons and knobs. Didn’t he realize how many people had touched that thing? How many pervy teens had run their unwashed hands all over it after doing who knows what with themselves?

Along with Street Fighter, he had Pac Man, Pinball, and Q*bert. There was also a pool table that Richie was quite proud of, and Eddie was ashamed to admit that they played two rounds of billiards before going out onto the patio so Richie could show off his pool. 

“Hope you remembered your swim trunks, Eds. I don’t think mine’ll fit ya. Did you lose ten pounds out on the road?”

“Myra’s got me on this stupid diet,” Eddie admitted as they walked a little lap around the sparkling blue water. “Shakes for breakfast, shakes for _lunch,_ a carrot for a snack, and then whatever low-carb bullshit she found on the internet for dinner.”

“Wait—wait… She put _you_ on a diet!? Is she trying to starve you to death? Dude, I’d check to see if she’s got a life insurance policy on you. It sounds like she’s trying to starve you to death.”

“We have policies for each other, dumbass. That’s what married people do.”

“Yeah, well, she’s trying to cash it in. S’all I’m sayin’.”

“She just wants me to be healthy. Especially after everything—”

Richie blew a raspberry and rolled his eyes as dramatically and annoyingly as he could. 

“Bullshit! Eds, she’s just trying to find new ways to control you. I bet you went out and did something she didn’t like right before she started this crap. Just like last time. Remember when you decided to lease that new Beamer? All of a sudden, none of your pants were right and she bought you all those weird-ass wool pants that fucked with your allergies?”

“You’re talking about my _wife,”_ Eddie warned him, trying desperately not to think about how true of a statement that may be. 

“Yeah. And?”

“And that’s my wife, dipshit.”

“And?”

“And!? And _what?_ You can’t just keep saying ‘and’ and expect that it’ll make you right!”

“I am right!” Richie said, breaking into frustrating laughter. “What was it? Did you cancel a gym membership? Or was it your new haircut?”

“You noticed my haircut?” Eddie asked, fingers instinctively running through his shorter hair. It was a lot less to fuss with when it was cut just a half of an inch shorter.

The bliss of having such a small change noticed by someone as scatterbrained as Richie outweighed Eddie’s realization that he had changed his haircut just before the diet started.

After they finished their little tour of the downstairs and the pool, Eddie and Richie went back inside to finish tucking Eddie’s things away into the upstairs guest room. The house was cleaner than Eddie expected, even though the housekeeper had been put on “paid leave” as Richie liked to call it.

“I gave her a thousand bucks and said ‘see ya when this is over.’ Better than the government, am I right?”

“Why a thousand?”

“Because a studio apartment in the hood costs fifteen hundred out here. I don’t want poor old Rosa selling out on the street to pay rent. I want those empanadas to stay in the family. God _damn,_ she makes good empanadas.”

“I’m sure she has other customers who haven’t shut her out,” Eddie said, wondering whether or not the reference to her cooking was an innuendo that went over his head. “Sanitation workers are _essential_ employees!”

“Yeah? Since when? Since you people on the East Coast decided they didn’t deserve a livable wage?” Who knew Richie was such a humanitarian. Eddie chewed on that little nugget of information for most of the evening. Richie was never what Eddie would describe as selfish, but he’d never thought of him as that compassionate either. 

That didn’t mean Eddie thought people should be expected to live off eight bucks an hour just because they did “unskilled” labor. Fair compensation for fair labor, right? And if they didn’t make enough, look harder for something better...right? Looking for a job now would probably be hard as hell, Eddie realized. He hadn’t thought about that; hadn’t thought to give his housekeeper—a bonafide American girl named Tammy-Lynn—a thousand bucks when they dropped her services in fear she’d bring the Coronavirus into their house.

Maybe Eddie should mail her a check… She probably lost a lot of business for the same reason. Fuck, was he a bad person? And if he did cut her a check and she cashed it, Myra would have a fucking aneurysm. She’d probably think Tammy-Lynn forged the check and try to put the poor girl in jail…

And Eddie didn’t want to tell Myra he not only took more things from her stockpile _and_ gave their former housekeeper a grand. 

It’d be shakes for breakfast, lunch, and dinner for that…

Shit. Did Richie have a _point?_

Eddie let the thought nag at him up until the doorbell rang. Then he was on high alert. Was it the cops? Did they see Eddie’s car and want to know why an out-of-state visitor had washed up in LA? Stopping your best friend from being a fucking moron wasn’t essential travel… Eddie _really_ didn’t want slapped with a misdemeanor right now. If Myra was going to flip out over the check, she’d _definitely_ have a heart attack if he got himself arrested.

He’d lose his _job!_

“What’s the matter? You look like you just shit your pants,” Richie said, moving past him to open the door. 

“Wait—Richie, wait!”

“What? It’s my pizza.”

“Pizza? You ordered fucking _pizza!?”_ Eddie followed Richie to the door and stared in irritated shock as Richie stooped down to pick up the boxes off the ground. 

The ground!

“It’s fine, Eds. No contact delivery. It’s great.”

“There could be COVID-19 _all over_ that box!”

“Which is why we wash our hands, oh great germaphobe. _Relax._ And before you bite my head off even more, it’s from a _local_ business. Mom and Pop shop. Probably won’t even make it through this fucking crisis, even with a bailout. So just wash your hands, plate up, and enjoy the last slices anyone might ever get from Mama Juana’s.”

“Mama Juana’s? Are you fucking joking right now?”

“No,” Richie said, setting the pizza down on the island in his kitchen and opening the boxes. Taco pizza, large. A veggie pizza, small. And wings smothered in sauce. When was the last time Eddie had gotten to eat _wings?_ “Mama Juana’s is a local gem. So fucking good. This one’s all me,” Richie said, gesturing to the taco pizza covered in lettuce and beef and so much stuff Eddie really just wanted to stuff in his face. “This is you. Gluten free, vegan—keeps up with your allergies.”

“You… You remembered?” Eddie asked, staring at the little pizza that was all for himself, lovingly made by some poor independent business owner with a, let’s face it, hilarious name. 

“Yeah. Duh,” Richie said, washing his hands before getting plates for them out of his cupboard. He washed his hands the full twenty-seconds, Eddie paid attention, and he wondered if it was to please Eddie or if he was really that considerate of the crisis. “Thought it’d be rude to have you come out here to save me only for me to kill you with a little bit of gluten. Oh, and the wing sauce is gluten free, too. Knock yourself out.”

After living off his reserve of snacks in the car and sleeping in his driver’s seat and basically living like a man on the run for close to three-thousand miles, this felt like paradise. Eddie ate while seated on the couch! The _couch!_ And watched sitcoms full of bad, dirty jokes that would’ve left Myra red-faced and seething. 

And the pizza _was_ good. Not like the horrid vegan pizza he’d gotten at a chain store in the city. It tasted fresh and like _real food,_ not overly processed or bland or covered in salt. 

And the _wings!_ Oh, how could Eddie forget to the mention the wings? Crispy, saucy, just the right amount of heat. 

“Moan any louder over there and I’ll think you creamed your pants. Jesus Christ, Myra needs to feed you more.”

“Fuck off, asshole,” Eddie said, mouth full of delicious, juicy chicken. 

Richie chuckled at that and continued munching on his crumbly mess of a pizza, a bit of salsa sticking on the corner of his mouth that he cleaned away with a calculated swipe of his pink, wet tongue.

The bite of chicken wing Eddie had been swallowing almost got caught in his throat and he choked a moment, having to grab for his glass of water despite his sauce-covered fingers to wash it down. 

“You good?” Richie asked, not taking his eyes off the television. 

“Fine,” Eddie said, voice still rough from nearly dying on a hot wings. What a way to go…

“Yeah? ‘Cause it sounds like you’re chokin’ on some cock.”

“Oh, fuck off!” Eddie said, face growing hot as he took another drink of water and finished eating the wing in his hand.

His stomach was doing a horrible acrobatics routine that was sadly unrelated to the food—though maybe it was a good thing it was just embarrassment and nerves and not crippling food poisoning in the middle of a health crisis. 

“You want something else to drink?” Richie asked after the food was finished and properly stored in the fridge. It pleased Eddie to no end to find Richie wrapping up his pizza slices in reusable sandwich bags. 

A true Californian! Hands washed and Richie was left peering into his fridge at some bottles of beer.

“Beer’s got gluten—”

“I’ve got wine and hard cider in the mini fridge downstairs,” Richie said, without missing a beat.

It probably wasn’t a good idea to drink, especially since it weakened the immune system and Eddie was terribly overdue for a cold after being crammed in his car for so long. However, a little bit later and he was a bottle of wine in and he and Richie were sitting side by side on the couch battling each other in Mario Kart. (The controllers had been disinfected with Clorox Wipes from Eddie’s care package.)

When their coordination was so gone they couldn’t compete anymore, they fell into hours of chattering on—catching up on all the things that had happened since they’d last met up. And then, with Richie a good six or seven beers in, his head came to rest on Eddie’s shoulder. It made him tense. It made his stomach start flipping over and over again as he thought of Myra, how angry she’d be—what she’d say to him if she knew where he _really_ was and that this was what he was _actually_ doing.

“You know,” Richie said, voice slurred from all the booze in his system. “I’m so happy you came here. No—Really. No, really, I am,” he said, as if Eddie had interrupted him. Eddie, for the time being, was still frozen in place, nearly empty bottle of hard cider in his hand—which he tried to concentrate on instead of how warm and heavy Richie’s weight was against him. “I was going _crazy._ I’m—I’m and _eggstrover._ Eggs...trovert.” He was really hung up on that one word and still not able to get it to come out right. “I’m so lonely, Eds. They canceled all my shows and I thought I was going to just _die._ Can’t see my studio friends. Can’t go to the bar. Can’t go to the gym. And I did! Sometimes… Not a lot. Well, not anymore since… Well, there was this guy there—fuck, shouldn’t say that. Fuck, forget I said that.” Suddenly, Richie was sitting up on his own and Eddie bit his lip hard to distract himself from how much discomfort he felt from having Richie’ put any space between them at all.

What the hell was wrong with him!? Eddie was a genuine introvert. He liked being left alone. If someone had to pick a dog breed to describe him, he’d be a house cat. Clean. Liked routine. Liked _space._ So why did he want Richie back in his space!? He didn’t even like Myra being in his space and they were _married._

“Anyway, Eds… I’m so happy you’re here. ‘Cause I was so lonely. I didn’t know _what_ to do!” Coupled with a large, sweeping hand gesture. “I thought everybody’s gon’ forget ‘bout me. But you didn’t. And you’re _here!_ Oh, my God, hi!” 

Yeah, Richie was well and truly wasted and Eddie felt just bad enough for him that he said hi back like a moron and found himself chuckling despite himself. 

“I’m an eggstrovert, Eggie. I thought I was going to die.” 

In an instant, all of the doubt Eddie had felt regarding coming here was gone. Richie, though drunk out of his mind, sounded so sad and broken. He sounded scared and grateful and Eddie, if he didn’t think something bad would come of it, would’ve wrapped his arms around Richie and given him a hug.

Instead, he patted his friend on the shoulder and let his hand linger just a moment longer than he usually would’ve and said, “Yeah. I’m glad I can be here for you, buddy. But I think it’s time we went to bed.”

“You want to go to bed with me?” Richie asked, cackling at his own joke halfway through saying it—missing entirely the way Eddie’s face grew flushed again. 

“Go drink some water and go to bed, fucker. You’re going to have a hell of a hangover in the morning.”

In the end, he had to bring the glasses of water to his friend and help get his upstairs to bed. He left him in his day clothes because he was _not_ about to change Richie like he was a little kid, then went downstairs to clean up their glasses and bottles and disinfect the coffee table where all of it had been. 

Eddie showered, he took a very, very long, very hot shower, and then patted himself dry with one of Richie’s lush, fluffy guest towels, then changed into sweats to sleep. 

He realized, just as he was on the cusp of unconsciousness, that he’d forgotten to call Myra and tell her goodnight. She didn’t call him, though, which meant she was mad. 

Eddie forced himself to set an alarm so he could call her and say good morning and apologize. Maybe he’d tell her he’d fallen asleep early… If he weren’t so drunk, he might’ve had an easier time coming up with an excuse. 

As he was falling asleep, Eddie chuckled to himself at the thought of telling his wife the truth. Sorry, Myra, I forgot to call because I was eating pizza and wings and drinking wine with that one friend you don’t approve of—oh, wait, you don’t approve of any of them because you’re insecure and selfish!

Just like Mom…

He thought this bitterly to himself as he rolled over in the strange bed in Richie’s guest room, the sheets rustling too noisily. It was clear Richie didn’t think about the person who had to sleep beneath this comforter when he picked it out.

Could you _imagine!_ He thought to himself. Could you just _imagine,_ trying to have sex on this thing!? It’d be so damned loud it’d wake the neighbors!

Wait… What? Why was _that_ where his brain decided to go?

Eddie rolled over again and pulled the under-stuffed pillow over his head to block out the thoughts. As if! As if _anyone_ would try to have sex on this bed. So uncomfortable. Downright impossible. 

And with that, Eddie fell asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Idk why my brain makes me write Richie as a hardcore Californian with Everything Eco Friendly, but that's just who he is today. Richie cares about the world and the people in it. He's so soft!
> 
> Also, still on the job hunt after losing both my jobs. I've got a part time gig at a grocery store lined up and a couple hopeful full time opportunities! Keep your head up if you're going through job loss or layoff. I promise there's stuff out there, it's just hard to find and not very glamorous work. Hopefully this fic can give you some joy and help keep your spirits up!
> 
> Let me know what you think :) comments are my food since I am no income at the moment!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is long because the angst happened. Don't worry, these two can't be together for long without arguing. What's a little shouting between regular old straight-up bro friends? 
> 
> Trigger warning for some homophobic language and internalized homophobia.

Richie woke up with a raging hangover, his mouth tasting terrible though he was pleased to discover he’d thrown up over the edge of his bed at some point in the night and not into his sheets. He spent a good amount of time cleaning that mess up, groaning in disgust at himself. It was hardly the first time he’d overindulged, but he was worried Eddie might’ve overheard from the guest room—or that it might’ve happened more times throughout the night before he got to bed.

As it was, he had no memory of anything beyond pizza and wings. He didn’t even remember when he’d started drinking. 

He cleaned up his mess and wracked his brain while showering off the reek of booze before brushing his teeth twice over and swishing around so much mouthwash it felt like he’d swallowed battery acid. Richie took a little bit longer shaving that morning, trying to keep his hand steady—trying to make his shave as even as possible without whirring away too much of his stubble. He wanted to look good, but not _too_ good. It wasn’t like he was _trying_ to impress anybody. 

God, no! Hell, if Eddie was the only one to see him because of this stupid self-isolation, or quarantine if LA was about to go the way of San Francisco, then he didn’t even need to shave at all. Pft, what did he need to impress _Eddie_ for?

With that in mind, Richie checked his reflection thrice over before he deemed his hair just messy and just neat enough, his face shaved just well and just imperfect enough, and his outfit just casual and just trim enough...wait.

Why the _fuck_ was he overthinking this?

Eddie wasn’t some daytime show host. He wasn’t _going_ anywhere.

Richie pulled on a red and green Hawaiian shirt over the white tee he’d chosen earlier, then messed up his hair to the extent it looked like he’d just rolled out of bed despite its still-damp texture. With that, he sauntered casually, definitely casually, downstairs to his kitchen where Eddie was already fluttering around with eggs sizzling on the stove top and fresh peppers diced up on a plate beside the sink.

Not what those peppers were for, Richie thought somewhat mournfully. Another part of him was distracted by the awkward pull he felt in his chest at the sight of Eddie so at home in his kitchen. Like the guy had lived there forever… 

“Finally up, asshole?”

“Didn’t realize you were waiting on me. Would’ve taken longer in the shower.” Richie stepped over to his coffee maker, tipping the solid metal pot to feel if it was full.

“Careful! I just brewed that!” Eddie snapped, passing Richie a filthy look while he tended to the eggs. “Would you hand me those peppers?”

Not only did he have eggs going, but diced potatoes, too. Also not what those hard-to-find red skins were for. Eddie was completely fucking up Richie’s meal prep for the week and though he wanted to bitch about it, that weird tugging in his chest kept him quiet. 

“Anything else you need? The blood of my first born? A million dollars?”

“Fuck off, man. I’m making us breakfast. The least you could do is hand me what I fucking ask for so it doesn’t get burnt to shit, okay!?” He kept grumbling to himself while Richie fixed a mug of coffee. Eddie had brewed it strong and Richie ended up having to add way more creamer than usual—earning him some side eye when Eddie noticed. “You know that shit’s nothing but chemicals, right? You may as well pour antifreeze in your cup and call it a day.”

“Don’t go giving me ideas now,” Richie said, taking a sip of his overly sweetened coffee. 

“Don’t even joke about that!” 

“Fine, fine.” 

The ended up eating at the dinning room table Richie hardly (if ever) used, sitting awkwardly across from one another. Eddie drank his coffee black, Richie noted. Strong and black. He wanted to make a joke about that, maybe ask Eddie if he liked his men like he liked his coffee—just to see what kind of reaction he would get.

Wait… Why the fuck would he ask _that?_ Jesus Christ, Richie was going insane being cooped up in the house like this. Asking his married friend—married to a _woman_ friend—how he liked his _men?_ Richie was one step away from stapling his mouth shut before he chased off his new and only Quarantine Buddy in under twenty-four hours. He probably would’ve stapled his mouth shut if the food weren’t so damned good. Who taught little Eds how to cook? Surely not his mommy.

Richie could hear dear old Mrs. K right now: “No, Eddie! The kitchen is _dangerous!_ There’s too many sharp knives and hot surfaces! You’ll get hurt!”

He chuckled to himself at the thought.

“What’s so fuckin’ funny?” Eddie snapped.

“Your mom,” Richie answer. It was hilarious how it was actually what was on his mind, and how angry Eddie got thinking it wasn’t.

“Fuck you! I thought you were a comedian? Can’t you come up with any other lines? Oh, wait. You can’t—because someone writes your shit for you.”

“What can I say? You caught me,” Richie teased, grinning the whole time which just served to make Eddie angrier. His face was even growing pink.

“You could at least say _thank you_ for the food! I got up early to make that for you!”

“Whatever, you probably got up early so you could trick Myra into thinking you’re still in her time zone,” Richie jabbed. He looked up from his plate just in time to see Eddie’s face go from pink to full on red. “Holy fuck! You did? You did!”

“It’s not funny.”

“It is funny! What do you think she’d do to you if she found out you were in California?” Richie asked. He knew what she’d do—she’d have a fucking heart attack and die. Her precious little Eddie-Bear out from under her thumb? Acting like his own person!? Unspeakable!

“She’d fucking divorce me, probably!” Eddie said, fork clanging down on the table for dramatic effect. “Bet you’d think that’s funny, too!”

“Oh, come on! She can’t divorce you. Then she won’t have control over you anymore and she’d be bored to tears!”

“Myra isn’t _controlling,”_ Eddie snapped. “Can we talk about anything else besides my fucking wife—and my fucking mom?”

“Yeah, sure. Sorry, dude.”

“Thank you,” Eddie snapped. 

“No problem, man. We can mix it up. Um… We can talk about fucking your wife and fucking your mom.” His deadpan delivery was the absolute best part. Richie hadn’t thought Eddie’s face could get any redder, but it did. Oh, and it was beautiful!

Richie laughed out loud and Eddie glared down at his breakfast, suddenly going back to eating as if he were going to pretend Richie didn’t just crush it.

“Sorry, but you walked into that one,” Richie said, a little disheartened when Eddie didn’t answer. The good old Silent Treatment. Classic. Eddie would be able to keep it up for an hour or two, or he’d leave if he were really that mad. However, they were stuck quarantined together and it was highly unlikely Eddie wanted to pack back up and drive another two days home to New York. Two hours tops, Richie reminded himself as Eddie ignored his next comment, too. “Thank you for breakfast. It’s really good,” Richie attempted, not wanting to spend two hours getting the silent treatment after being stuck alone for a week already.

Eddie didn’t answer him or look up from his plate which was damned near empty by now. He was really hustling through his meal, probably trying to get the hell away from Richie and his bad jokes.

Shit.

“I mean, it’s pretty great—even if you ruined my meal prep for the week.”

“What!? How the fuck does _me_ making breakfast fuck up your meal prep? Because there’s two of us here now?”

“Well, yeah, for starters. That and those peppers you diced up were for my stuffed peppers. And these potatoes—which are bomb as fuck, by the way—were supposed to go with my chicken thighs.”

“Chicken thighs?” Eddie said, sounding almost mournful as he looked down at his plate. 

“Yeah. I’m used to being on the go all the time. If I don’t have food, you know, all portioned out and shit, I’ll starve.”

“Yeah, but you’re not on the go—you’re in quarantine.”

“And my routine is all fucked up and if I don’t have the motivation to cook because I’m going into social withdrawal, I’ll starve. So I was gonna make stuffed peppers to last the week for dinner and roasted potatoes and Jerk chicken thighs for lunches.”

“With what?” Eddie asked, still staring at his plate while his face went back to being a normal color.

“Uh… My oven?”

“No! I figured that, dumbass! I meant...what were you going to make the chicken and potatoes with. Like what vegetable? You don’t just have meat and potatoes. You need greens, you need...you need vitamins.”

“I don’t know. I’ve got broccoli… Asparagus, but that was for my salmon. Uh… I think I have green beans, too. I was with the rest of the lunatics panic buying all the produce. I kind of got a little bit of everything. Which is good, because you can’t get _anything.”_

“Including potatoes...” Eddie said, his tone of voice sounding haunted. Richie must’ve really sold him on the chicken thighs and potatoes for him to sound that bummed about it.

“It’s fine. I’m sure there’ll be more in a couple days. Nothing wrong with the supply chain, you know? Just gotta get there early and wait in the queues. Like the old days! Hanging out in the bread line!” 

“I sent you some of those boxed mashed potato flakes...and the little pouches. I sent you the pouches right?”

“Eds, you sent me a whole fucking grocery store. What the fuck, dude?”

“I didn’t want you to starve! And then when I decided I was coming out here, _I_ didn’t feel like starving either. Did I send you the pouches of instant potatoes or not?”

“I think so!” Richie said, not sure why Eddie suddenly sounded so defensive.

“Well good! We can have those with the chicken.”

“Okay then, Chef Eds. Are you cooking or me?” Richie asked, laughing to himself. He felt that he’d somehow, unintentionally, impressed Eddie with his meal prep. It was an ego boost he probably didn’t need but appreciated nonetheless. Instant potatoes kind of killed the elevated tone of his baked Jerk chicken thighs, but he’d find a way to survive the disappointment. 

“You can do the cooking. I don’t handle raw meat. That’s disgusting.” He even shuddered at the thought which kept Richie chuckling a lot longer than was probably appropriate. 

Richie teased him for that for a bit, then let their conversation circle back to meal prep now that Richie was inevitably going to have to start prepping for two. Eddie, of course, decided he needed to take inventory of all the food Richie had and all the food he had sent him like a damned Doomsday Prepper. Richie had to remind him time and again that the stores _were_ open. There was still food out there, they just needed to get to it first and once the idiots who panic bought it all the first time around realized it all rotted before they could eat it, they’d leave the fresh produce alone. Two weeks tops.

And by that time, Richie was positive this whole thing will have blown over. They didn’t need to make the food last two months as if they weren’t getting more. Not that Eddie was probably going to stay for the sixty-day isolation he was planning. 

It’d be nice, but—

Wait. Nice? Having Eddie in his space messing up his meal prep and getting defensive about potatoes for sixty days was _nice?_

Richie really needed to get a fucking grip.

( ) ( ) ( )

Eddie had laid himself down on his yoga mat outside by Richie’s pool—after generously slathering himself in SPF 50, of course. The sun had moved away from the center of the sky which kept him from being baked alive in the UV rays, and the temperature was just cool enough to be comfortable in his athletic pants and long-sleeved compression shirt. (His inhaler tucked carefully into his pocket in case of sudden pollen.)

Richie was holed up in his office on a conference call of some kind and Eddie, after being checked in on by Myra for a seventy-three minutes phone call (in addition to the two hour one he’d had way too fucking early that morning), needed some space and time to clear his head. It took a while to find a comfortable spot near the pool where there wasn’t too much sun or too much shade—where the breeze wasn’t noisy from rushing past the siding of Richie’s condo.

It really was peaceful here, Eddie thought as he sat cross-legged on his mat and cleared his mind. No honking horns, no screaming kids, no splashing. It was like he was the only person in the universe. He let his stress over Myra and having to return to working from “home” tomorrow bleed out of him.

He settled into his first pose, stretching out his back and getting his breathing under control. He envisioned that he was somewhere else—on the beach, maybe. But, like, a beach that no other human knew about that wasn’t polluted or full of radiation. A fantasy island, maybe.

He kept his eyes closed and went to that nice, private place where there was no pandemic, no angry wives or bosses. No friends drunkenly admitting they might be feeling close to suicidal and then not remembering it in the morning. Just himself and the cool breeze and warm sun. The gentle lap of the waves on Richie’s pool from the wind could’ve been ocean waves on the shore.

Then, just as Eddie was moving into his third or forth fluid pose, he felt the energy around him shift and cracked open one of his eyes like an annoyed cat in an old cartoon. Richie, for whatever fucking reason, was sitting next to him playing on his cell phone.

“The fuck are you doing?” Eddie asked.

“I was gonna ask you the same thing,” Richie said, not looking up from his phone.

“What’s it look like, dipshit?”

“Uh…” Richie did look at him then, a weird smile overcoming the corner of his mouth. “I’m going to guess kick boxing.” 

“You know what I’m doing,” Eddie snapped, closing his eyes again and trying to chase the bliss he’d been feeling moments before. Now, all he felt was embarrassed. “I’m all cramped up from being in the car. I usually go running _and_ I lift weights. I have a gym set at home in the basement. I do yoga to, you know, clear my mind and get stretched out first. It’s not girly!”

“Easy, tiger. I didn’t say it was.” Richie chuckled at him, that annoying little laugh that made Eddie’s entire face get hot for some stupid reason or other. “So what pose is this? Downward-Facing Doggy Style?”

“I’m doing a fucking plank. And if you want to sit out here, that’s fine, but _please_ be quiet. I’m trying to concentrate.” Asking Richie to be quiet was the same as asking Earth to stop turning. It wouldn’t happen. Unless an atom bomb went off, Earth would spin and Richie would flap his yap.

“How do you hold it for that long? Aren’t your arms tired?”

Eddie heaved a deep sigh and dropped his head. “If you’re actually in the proper position, it’s not that hard.”

“If you’re in the proper position and it’s not hard—”

“Don’t start that shit! I’m trying to work out! Can you please just—”

“Sorry. Sorry, sorry, sorry. I’ll shut up.” He presumably went back to playing on his phone, but Eddie didn’t open his eyes to check. Switching poses, however, was just enough to interrupt Richie’s pathetic excuse for an attention span. “Hogtied?”

“Bow Pose?”

“Hm…”

_“What?”_

“Nothing.”

It felt like the setup for a joke and Eddie wasn’t having it. “What, asshole?”

“Nothing!” Defensive this time, but still with that infuriating spark of humor. “Just… Okay, like, don’t get creeped out. I’m not a perv or something, but I knew you were, like, ripped as fuck, but I didn’t know you were flexible. I bet you could put Ben to shame!”

Eddie felt his face getting hot again. He wasn’t sure what to make of that comment as a whole. Putting Ben to shame, now that was a joke. But how the hell did Richie get the idea that he was ‘ripped as fuck’? He’d been wearing baggy clothes the whole time they were in Derry. He wore loose-fitting clothes all the time unless he was working out. Unless Richie saw something in the hospital, how the fuck did he know that?

“I’m not that ripped. I’m just in shape. I know it’s hard for you to tell the difference since you can barely fit your beer gut into your jeans.”

“What’re you lookin’ at my waistline for? See something you like?”

“What? Don’t be gross!” Eddie said, looking at Richie just to check his expression—just to see what the fuck was going on. Richie was smiling at him, his face looking red too like he’d somehow embarrassed himself.

Richie always said weird shit, Eddie thought, shaking his head and switching to an easier pose to manage. Richie always said weird shit and this was normal. This was fine. 

“Hey, I think I can do that one!” Richie said, sounding way too eager to be doing Dolphin Pose. “Okay. Okay, maybe not. Maybe not.”

“Well, you’re not—you’re not doing it right. Move your feet back.”

“What? I’ll fall!”

“You will not. You’re not flexible enough to have them that far forward—and you didn’t warm up! You’re going to hurt yourself!” After a fair bit of fussing, Eddie corralled Richie in Sphinx Pose—no longer worried about him falling over and cracking his head on the concrete. 

“Now this one I’m familiar with,” Richie said, doing something stupid his hips that Eddie slammed his eyes shut to avoid. 

“Don’t be gross,” Eddie complained. 

“It’s not gross! It’s a fact of life! How do you think you got here?”

“I don’t want to be thinking about that right now.”

“Good old fashioned Missionary.”

“Shut up, Richie.”

“It does feel good on my shoulders, though.”

“Good.”

“Do you think this’ll help with my back?”

“What? I don’t know! What’s wrong with your back?”

“I don’t know. Maybe I fucked it up when I fell from the Deadlights and slammed my leg into the ground and fell flat on my back?”

“Jesus, Rich. If it’s still hurting, go to a doctor! You could have a fucking fracture—it could be all calcified and, and healed wrong!” His nonchalant tone about the incident really got under Eddie’s skin.

“Yeah. Maybe,” Richie said, not sounding like he cared at all. “What next? I think I’m good on this one.”

“Hold it another minute.”

“A minute? Why?” Richie asked, reaching for his damned phone to actually time it. 

“Richie! If you’re going to be out here, can you at least listen to me!? Please? I’m trying to work out! I’m trying to relax!”

“Sorry, sorry…” 

“Do you think you can manage a plank?”

“That depends—are you going to show me the ‘right way’ to do it so I don’t hurt myself?”

“Yeah,” Eddie said, biting back the ‘duh’ he hoped came across enough with his tone. As if he’d let Richie go and hold the pose all wrong and fuck up his already injured back even worse. “You can do it on your elbows or your palms. Which is more comfortable for you?” 

“Palms? Maybe?” Richie said, fumbling a little bit with his own limbs like he suddenly forgot how to use them. Eddie coached him into position, tapping at the middle of his back to get him to lower his hips properly—smoothing a hand over his calf to get him to put his feet a little closer together. “Yeah, no, dude. This totally still fuckin’ hurts.”

“It’s because you’re out of shape. Just go with it. It’s for two minutes. Two. Minutes. Just shut up and hold it.”

“Okay. I’ll try,” Richie whined. He huffed and sighed and whined the entire time, but Eddie was getting good at tuning him out while he concentrated on his own, more challenging poses. “Why do you get to stand up and I’m still laying on the ground? You saying I’m beneath you or something?”

“Because you’ll fall over!” Eddie snapped. He’d also given Richie his yoga mat, so it wasn’t like Eddie was about to lay on the concrete and hurt himself. 

“Admit it, you just like looking down on me,” Richie said in his irritating singsong voice. 

“If you can talk, you’re not stretching enough. Pull your knees in closer.”

“No—No, God, please no. I’ll shut up.” His silence, which was hardly silence at all, lasted fifteen seconds...if that. “Are we going to do this _every_ day?”

“We? No one is making you do this! I didn’t ask you to come out here!”

“I wanted to hang out!”

As endearing as it was, his voice was still annoying. 

“Do you think you could manage Bridge Pose?”

“I don’t know what that means!” Richie whined, sounding every bit like an exhausted toddler that needed put down for a nap. Eddie laid beside him just long enough to show him, then had to keep coaching him to hold the position properly because apparently ‘hold it’ meant ‘squirm around and shuffle your feet’ in Tozier. “Why are all these poses so sexual? You and Myra must be freaky as hell.”

“You already know we’re not,” Eddie grumbled. He gave up. He just gave up… There was no getting him to go inside, no matter how uncomfortable the pose, and there was no quieting him. 

“No? But think about all the—”

“My wife doesn’t like to have sex with me. You already know that. Can you please just...not?”

Richie was quiet for a minute—well, not a whole minute; that would be impossible—then let out a small, determined sounding sigh. Like he was gearing up for a fight. Eddie didn’t like it one bit.

“Why don’t you get a divorce?”

“Excuse me!?”

“Why don’t you get a divorce? Leave that woman. She treats you like shit—she’s always controlling you. She doesn’t have _sex_ with you. I mean, what do you get out of this?”

“Stay out of my marriage,” Eddie said, steeling himself against the words. “And put your feet back where they were—and don’t start _whining!”_ It wasn’t like the idea hadn’t crossed his mind half a dozen times—even before Derry. But there was something about it coming from Richie, who he’d decided to quarantine himself with instead of Myra, that made it sound too…

Too real? Too possible?

Too _tempting?_

Scary. It sounded too fucking scary. His credit would tank, he’d probably end up paying alimony out the ass. Myra would take the house, so he’d be _homeless._ Eddie had no game—literally no game at all. The scar on his cheek chased off anyone normal, anyway… And even if he was ‘ripped’ as Richie wanted to put it, any woman who saw him with his shirt off was going to ask about his hideous, horrific scar. Then it’d be the Urban Exploration story he’d told Myra and he didn’t like _lying_ to people… So it was divorce Myra and die alone, or stay married to Myra and at least have someone to take care of and talk to every day. He could live without the sex stuff. It was gross and...nasty and...not good anyway.

“I’m just saying…and I’m probably crossing a line here, but I’m gonna run with it anyway—you’re fuckin’ hot. Like, in all seriousness, dude. You should be, like, banging your assistant or something. Having affairs with baristas. Living the New York Dream. Not sitting around your house with a wife who won’t sleep with you because, what? What does she even say?”

“I’m not getting into this with you. And, for the record, my assistant is a _guy.”_

“So? Live a little!” Richie dropped out of his pose and lay sprawled out at Eddie’s feet, heaving for air as if he’d been made to run a mile.

“Rich, I don’t want to hook up with baristas! I don’t want to fuck my assistant _or_ cheat on my wife!”

“Fine. I’m just saying, you should be married to someone who wants to have sex with you. I’m not even saying you have to _do it._ Just—hear me out, okay? Wouldn’t it be nice to know that when you get home, your wife is so happy to see you that her clothes just fall off? I mean—that’s a dream come true, right?”

Eddie literally shuddered at the thought and dropped out of his pose. 

“Wow! What the hell was that?”

“I don’t—I don’t know! I don’t want you talking about my wife like that!” Eddie said, backpedaling rapidly as he tried to figure out why the image in his head was suddenly so...unappealing. It wasn’t that he didn’t find Myra beautiful. She was! She always wore the softest, nicest clothes and she smelled wonderful all the time. She was always clean and tidy, and took expert care of her nails. He missed her long hair—soft, long blond hair that used to be so glossy and smooth between his fingers. But seeing her naked just...it didn’t…

It didn’t do it for him. It wasn’t _Myra._ It was him. He was messed up. And him being insecure and messed up made Myra pull away from him in that way. 

And he _really_ didn’t need Richie poking his nose into those aspects of his fucking marriage.

“Eds—”

“Don’t. Don’t fucking start. Just get up and give me my yoga mat.”

“Why? Are we finally done?” Richie looked too excited about that and it just irritated Eddie even more.

“Yes. We’re done. I’m done. It was a mistake even coming out here.”

“Eds? Come on—I’m sorry I said anything. I won’t bring it up again. Don’t be like this.”

“Get up,” Eddie said, gesturing for Richie to move while the man sat defiantly in place on the yoga mat. “I’m not fucking around, asshole. Get up!”

“No. Not until you tell me why you’re all pissed off!”

“Because you’re making fun of my wife!”

“What? Because I asked if it’d be nice to come home to a woman who wants to fuck you? _That’s_ making fun of your wife!?”

“Get up! Fucking get up!” Eddie couldn’t handle the way Richie was looking at him—half peeved and half sad. He looked hurt, and he _deserved it_ for being a nosy prick who was _way_ far out of line—but Eddie still hated it. It wasn’t fair his glasses lenses were so damned thick he had puppy dog eyes literally twenty-four seven. It only got worse when he looked upset.

“What? I’m sorry! I just—I care about you, man! I fucking hate seeing you all worked up all the time because your wife is always riding your ass about something.”

“That’s what married people do, asshole! Maybe if you grew up a little, hung out with some actual _mature_ adults and not a bunch of Hollywood dipshits, you’d figure that out!”

“It has nothing to do with being married! She’s a fucking shitty person!”

“What the fuck is wrong with you!?”

“Me!? I’m just calling it like I see it. She puts you on shitty diets. She calls you every thirty fucking minutes if she can’t be in control of where you are or who you’re talking to.”

Eddie tried interjecting, tried shouting obscenities so loud the neighbors—if not the entire block of condos—could definitely hear. Richie wasn’t having it. He still had those fucking kicked-puppy eyes even as his mouth was spewing hate.

“She kicked me out your fucking hospital room when I thought you were gonna _die!_ You told her you didn’t want me to go and she _still_ kicked me out. And that’s when you were _fucking dying, man!_ How the _fuck_ does she treat you when you’re at home?”

“Stay out of my marriage,” Eddie warned, his shoulders tensing as he set his jaw. 

“Fine! But if you’re so happy with her, then why the fuck did you come out here?” Richie finally surrendered the yoga mat, getting up and grabbing his phone before making to go inside. 

“To make sure you didn’t get yourself killed! To pay you back for dragging me out of Neibolt maybe!?” Eddie screamed, chasing after him—forgetting to grab the yoga mat he’d been so intent on retrieving a moment ago. “Because you’re my fucking friend!?”

All the way inside and up the stairs to the kitchen, they fought. Getting louder and nastier by the second. Richie got himself a beer from the fridge and made as if to open it, only to have Eddie snatch it from his hand and shatter the entire bottle in the sink. Eddie felt they were one step away from exchanging blows, even though he didn’t want to hurt Richie. 

It was like there was a knife digging into his throat, and the only way to keep it from slicing him open was to scream. If he got loud enough, if he got angry enough, maybe he could drive the threat away. His heart was racing like he’d been trapped in something, like a man caught in a lie grappling for excuses to find another way out.

“Why did you bring all this shit here, then!? Who the _fuck_ brings their goddamned _yoga mat_ all the way across the fucking country!?” Richie was screaming, his voice sounding strained and wrecked and so full of hurt. 

“Because I—”

“That’s bullshit!”

“I didn’t even get to say anything!”

“Whatever excuse you have is bullshit! You _left_ her!”

“Left her!? I talked to her for four fucking hours today! Where do you get the idea that I left her!?”

“Because she’s in New York! And where are you, Eddie? You’re in fucking _California!_ You drove all the way to fucking _California_ behind her back to be with _me!”_

“What, you think I left my wife for _you!?”_ Eddie shouted, realizing a split second later that Richie’s face had gone pale—that he looked sick as all the fight and hostility bled out of him.

It was the atom bomb, Eddie realized. The thing that made the earth quit turning and Richie shut his mouth. 

“You… You thought I left Myra for...for you?” Eddie asked, his voice so low it was almost a whisper—almost covered up by the rattle of the refrigerator as it kicked off. 

“What? No—Fuck, of course not,” Richie stammered, looking away—turning away with his entire body as he shuddered and starting picking up the pieces of shattered glass from his sink. His voice, too, was quiet and trembling and so unlike his own that it had Eddie close to speechless. “I’m not—I’m not some fucking homo, man. Do I have to preface everything I say with ‘no homo’ from now on? Jesus.” 

He was shaking, though. He was shaking so hard that the glass he picked up rattled in his hands. He was going to cut his fucking hands!

Eddie couldn’t take it. He shoved Richie away from the sink, almost knocking him to the floor as he’d used more strength than he’d meant to use on someone so clearly out of it. 

“You’ll fuckin’ hurt yourself,” Eddie mumbled, taking over the task of cleaning up the glass after digging around in the cupboards to find a paper bag he could put the shattered bottle in before tucking it in the trash.

“Eddie—”

“Stop.”

“Eddie, I’m not—”

“I said stop.” Eddie washed his hands, washed all the way up his forearms to the point where his rolled up sleeves were getting wet. His brain was completely locked up, caught in a trap he had no method of escaping. Not even a clue of how to fight it. 

Little things, all sorts of small, subtle things, were clicking together in Eddie’s mind. Looks Richie had given him. Things he’d said… Not just out by the pool while they were working out, but before then, too. Little, odd jokes here and there that had always left Eddie...doubting? Was doubting the right word? When they were kids, when they were fighting It, where was Richie? Always right beside him—or standing in front of him like a shield. It was _Richie_ who carried him out of Neibolt. It was Richie who sat with him in the hospital, who argued when Myra tried to make them all leave. It was Richie who, out of fucking shape as he was, tried to lay at Eddie’s side and do yoga because he ‘wanted to hang out.’

“I—I can explain,” Richie stammered, sounding desperate. Sounding _scared._ Eddie turned away from the sink, hands still dripping wet, to see Richie looking more terrified than he’d ever seen him before. He was still shaking, his magnified eyes holding all the fear of a cornered animal. “Please, don’t tell the others. Please, Eds. No one needs to know.”

“Don’t call me Eds.” His voice still didn’t come out sounding proper, but he got enough muscle-control to find a towel and dry his hands. 

“Eddie, please. You can leave, just—just please don’t tell the guys. Please. They—They won’t understand. They won’t understand, and then I’ll have nothing. I’ll have no one left.” 

There were things he should probably say to him, words of reassurance, maybe? Tell him that his secret was safe with him, even if Richie was an asshole? He should probably say that it didn’t matter to him, that this whole freaking out, shaking thing was really unnecessary. But the words wouldn’t come. Eddie stared at him a moment or two longer, listening to Richie’s stammered explanations without hearing them, then walked away. 

Richie called after him, but didn’t follow. 

As soon as Eddie reached the guestroom and sank down on the bed, covering his face with his hands, Richie—from downstairs—screamed so loud, with so much pain and anguish, that it made the first of the tears fall. Every one after that was ripped from Eddie with a sob. 

To see Richie so afraid like that… How had he never realized it before? That he had someone that close to him who—

There were awful voices echoing in Eddie’s head, saying things like statistics about AIDS and the increase in risk for Partner-on-Partner violence in same sex couples. About diseases… About murders and assaults and all sorts of terrible, evil things he’d heard said about people like...Richie.

Blight on the community. Public health risk. Perversion. Child molester… Monster. 

Monster was always his mother’s favorite word to describe Richie—because he was so high-energy and unwittingly destructive. 

What was it Myra had said in the hospital? When she got jealous of Richie and wanted him gone… She’d said something like, “It was his idea, wasn’t it? This whole ‘Urban Exploration!’ He didn’t even _think_ about the danger he put you in. Probably too distracted. It’s disgusting. Something’s _wrong_ with that one, Eddie. Something’s _wrong_ with him. I can tell by the way he _looks_ at you.” Every word spat with venom that had made Eddie, in that moment, feel ashamed of himself for not seeing whatever it was she saw, for not minding the way Richie ‘looked’ at him even though he saw it for himself and knew it was different from how the rest of his friends appeared. 

More and more things started to click into place, even though Eddie really wished his brain would just go quiet. He’d already used his inhaler twice since locking himself in the guestroom and nothing helped to get the air into his lungs.

Myra wasn’t jealous of Richie. She wasn’t insecure and jealous the way Eddie always thought she was. If that were the case, she’d have been more protective around Beverly. She was threatened by Richie. She saw something in him that she recognized in Eddie, too. She _knew._

Fuck. She _knew_ and she was _right._

_Fuck._


	5. Chapter 5

Richie felt as if knives were piercing through him at every joint in his body. He felt as if he’d swallowed glass. His headache from this morning had come back with a vengeance, and he’d vomited enough times that he was almost sure his dinner from a week ago had just gotten flushed down the toilet—along with his lungs and his liver and his heart.

Eddie had stormed off after Richie’s secret had come spilling out, and nothing Richie did or said could take it back. Eddie knew what he was… Eddie knew what he _thought,_ how he _felt._ Eddie now knew the reason Richie stayed at his hospital bed long after the rest of the Losers had gone home. Why he canceled his tour dates to stay put and keep Eddie entertained in that horrid, little hospital room. He knew why Richie stayed even after Myra started trying to force him out.

It was all over. Their friendship, everything. It had just been ripped from Richie’s hands because he didn’t know how to keep his mouth shut.

How long would it be before Eddie told the others? Fuck, he could be texting them all right now saying, “Hey, guys. Remember how when we were kids, Bowers used to always call Richie a fag? Well, turns out he was right! And guess what else! I think the freak’s hung up on me! Can you believe it!?”

It didn’t matter, Richie thought to himself. It didn’t matter what Eddie did or what he told them. Eddie was packing his stuff and he was going to leave. He’d leave and Richie would drink and drink until every last memory of him and the Losers fell out of his head. It had happened once before; he was sure he could forget them all again if he drank hard enough. 

That was what he’d do, Richie decided. He would wait until he heard the last of Eddie’s five hundred suitcases bang down the stairs, and then he’d work on getting fucked up and forgetting everything. Then, once this virus bullshit was over in a week or so, he’d bury himself in his work until he had no time to think of anything else. He’d go do his shows, be reminded that the world still loved him even if those who actually knew him hated his guts, and life would be fine. Just like old times… Only Beverly might still talk to him. She worked in fashion. She was probably surrounded on all sides by homos. What was one more?

One out of five friends wasn’t too bad, right? Better than none. 

Only, after an unmeasured but long span of time, it wasn’t Eddie’s suitcases that came banging down the stairs. It was Eddie’s fist on the bathroom door.

“Rich?” 

And somehow, even now, even laying on the floor of his bathroom feeling like every bone in his body had been broken, his voice made Richie’s chest ache. 

“Hey, Richie? Can… Can we talk? I’m really sorry about...about earlier. I shouldn’t have said all that and...and I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.” He knocked again, more softly this time, like he thought Richie hadn’t heard him. “Richie?”

Richie struggled to pull himself up from the floor, feeling like a man in his eighties with how much his muscles and joints protested. He guessed an hour or two on a hard, tile floor wasn’t exactly good for a person of any age—especially after getting wrecked by a weird yoga routine. 

Fuck, just remembering that was humiliating. What else would he have done to steal another second at Eddie’s side? Follow him to the bathroom while he brushed his teeth after breakfast? 

“Richie, I’m _sorry._ Please open the door. Please talk to me. I fucked up. I’m _sorry.”_

Richie really couldn’t handle his voice when it sounded like that. He checked his face in the mirror, deciding he only looked about as bad as he usually did after going on a bender despite the fact that he was sober, then pushed the door open a crack. He wondered if he smelled as horrible as he felt considering the number of times he’d puked. He must’ve, because Eddie recoiled as soon as the door opened—that or he didn’t want to catch AIDS by proximity.

Not that Richie had it, but he was now probably little more than a walking health risk to Eddie. So much for quarantining it up in LA, fucker, now you’re locked in with a—

“Jesus, Rich. You look like shit.” Eddie was grimacing at him, his face suspiciously swollen and red like he’d been crying. What the hell did he have to cry about? Well, other than leaving behind his loving wife and driving all the way across the fucking country during a lockdown to save a friend who he just found out wanted to bone him. Yep, he had a lot to cry about...

“Well, thanks for that,” Richie said, unable to force a joke—hardly able to talk with how much his throat hurt. Damn. Maybe he caught COVID-19 from his bathroom floor. Or maybe he just screamed his throat bloody after acting like a damn high school drama queen.

“Sorry—fuck. Listen, Richie, I’m sorry.” Eddie scrubbed at his face with his hands, messing up his short hair in the process. Under different circumstances, Richie would’ve used it as an excuse to touch him—to get in his space and either fuck up his hair worse or attempt to fix it just to be slapped away. No way in hell he was ever going to try that again. Not that he was probably ever going to see Eddie again after this whole ordeal was over, but…

“Look, it’s—it’s whatever, man. You don’t have to apologize. You didn’t _do_ anything.” Richie took the opportunity to slip out of the bathroom and make a desperate beeline for the stairs. His heart was racing again, just being face-to-face with Eddie, and more than anything in the world, he just wanted this band-aid ripped off so he could start to forget it was ever there to begin with.

“Didn’t do anyth—Hey! Asshole! I’m talking to you!” Eddie snapped, giving chase and stomping up the stairs behind Richie.

He felt chased—and not in the romantic, desperate pursuit sort of way he might’ve dreamed about as a kid. He felt chased like an animal—like a convict on the run, knowing there was no place to hide and trying anyway. It was the sort of panic and fear that had criminals hiding between mattresses and box springs thinking they wouldn’t be found. Like a little kid hiding behind a curtain during a match of Hide-n-Seek. Eddie, however, wasn’t like a gentle parent about to pretend he didn’t see Richie’s feet poking out under the hem. 

“There’s nothing to say. Sorry you came out here. Sorry for giving you shit about using my potatoes and for crashing your morning workout shit. You don’t owe me an apology. You don’t owe me anything.”

“Asshole! I’m _talking to you!”_ Eddie continued, shoving open the bedroom door Richie had almost succeeding in closing in his face. “Would you quit! I’m sorry I freaked out! It was a dick move. I just—Fuck, I wasn’t _prepared,_ okay?”

Richie’s hiding place was not that of a desperate convict, but rather his balcony. He went outside with the curtain still drawn over the sliding glass door. “Sorry. Was I supposed to set the mood or something? Maybe put on a few RomComs and then—” His words were cut short as Eddie’s hand closed around his bicep, forcing him to turn around.

“Stop being a prick and just _talk_ to me!” Eddie shouted. His face was bright red and for the first time, Richie noticed there were tears rimming his eyes like he was about to start crying.

Fuck, if he cried, Richie was going to cry. 

Was it too late to change hiding places? If he moved quickly enough, could hide in the guestroom closet? Or was that too on-the-nose? It was probably full of Eddie’s suitcases anyway.

“What do you want to talk about? What do you want me to say?” Richie asked. 

“I don’t want you to _say_ anything. I want you to listen!”

“Well, that’s not what you just said. Kind of sending mixed signals here, Eds.” Making him angry seemed to keep those tears from welling any further in his eyes, and that became Richie’s missions. If he could focus on that, maybe he could forget how hard his heart was pounding—forget how cornered he felt, forget how frantic and anxious he was, almost on the verge of flinging himself off the balcony in an attempt to get away. 

He’d probably break his fucking hip, but there was no way Eddie was about to follow him to a plague-pit of a hospital during a pandemic. 

“Shut up! Just shut up, asshole! I’m—I’m trying to say something, so…so would you just—just listen?”

“Well, I don’t know, Eds. You didn’t seem to want to listen to me.” It was a low blow and did the opposite of what Richie had wanted. Eddie’s face crumpled and those tears that had been welling up started to spill over. 

“It just… It just shocked me, is all,” Eddie said, looking down at his feet. “I didn’t expect it. I would never have even said that if...if I thought it were true.”

“Said what?” Richie asked, turning away from Eddie because he couldn’t stand to watch his friend cry—even if Eds was trying to be a man about it and choke it back. He was doing a terrible job, but Richie wasn’t that much of a dick that he’d point it out.

“About… About Myra. About all of it. I wouldn’t have said it…” He took a shaking breath, then—yep. A puff of his inhaler. “I wouldn’t have said that shit about you thinking I was leaving Myra if…”

“Yeah, I get it. It’s fine, man. I don’t care. Can you just keep it between us? I’d like to have some friends left after this quarantine is over. You don’t—” Again, Eddie was forcing him to turn around and face him. His warm, firm grip on Richie’s bicep was doing nothing for his churning stomach. How was it even possible to feel so sick and disgusted with himself, and yet feel butterflies in his stomach despite all of it when the reason he was so distressed was touching him?

“I think… I think you were right,” Eddie said, gulping in between his words. He looked terrified, and the two little tears running down the left side of his face made the chaos in Richie’s stomach that much worse.

He couldn’t hold back anymore. Richie jerked his arm away from Eddie who had all of two seconds to bark at him for it before Richie was heaving his empty, aching guts out over the railing of the balcony. 

“Jesus, Richie! Are you—Are you alright!?” Eddie was back at his side, rubbing his open palm up and down Richie’s spine in a way that might’ve been soothing or even welcome at a different time. 

“Think you gave me food poisoning, fucker,” Richie whined, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand as he unfolded himself from the railing and pulled away from Eddie’s touch. 

“I know how to cook, asshole. If it were food poisoning, I’d have it too. And it wouldn’t set in that fast.”

“You’re right. Guess it’s Corona,” Richie said, shoving aside the dark curtain over his sliding glass door and going back into his room. He made his way hurriedly to the sink in his bathroom and started rinsing out his mouth, Eddie chasing him the whole way.

“That’s not even a symptom!” He barked. “Look, can we just _please_ talk? Just for a minute? I-I know I was a prick. I fucked up. I don’t know what else you want me to say.”

“Just say whatever the fuck it is you need to say, and then get out,” Richie snapped, wanting privacy—wanting the chance to brush his teeth and get rid of the flavor of puke without his germaphobe ex-best friend standing right behind him. 

“Get… Get out? What? Wh-Why?”

“Why!? Because I don’t want to hear you harp on me about HIV and the AIDS epidemic and how you know someone who knows someone who caught it and passed it to their partner without knowing it and killed them both—or whatever the fuck it is you’re going to say to me! Just _leave!”_

“I wasn’t going to say anything like that! I’ll leave if that’s what you want, but not until I say what I need to say!”

“Then hurry up and just say it, Eds. Say it and be done with it.” Richie leaned his face down toward the sink to rinse out his mouth.

“Well, will you at least look at me?”

“No! Can I please just brush my fucking teeth? I smell like barf—I know you know it. You don’t get to scream at me, then chase me around my house trying to apologize. That’s not how this works.”

“Fine,” Eddie snapped, actually listening this time and leaving the room. He slammed Richie’s bathroom door hard enough to crack the wall and Richie could hear him muttering something to himself as he moved...over to Richie’s bed and sat down. 

Seriously? So much for privacy. Though, an annoyingly calm part of Richie’s mind spoke up, Eddie was probably considering himself on guard duty after how much Richie had been carrying on earlier. Stan slit his wrists in the bath—who was to say Richie wouldn’t do the same if given the chance?

Still wasn’t what Richie had in mind though, so he showered off the smell of vomit and sweat—and was then forced to go back into his room in only a towel and his glasses. Eddie, who was still sitting cross-legged on the bed, immediately flushed all the way down his neck and looked away. 

“What?” Richie asked, going to his closet and dresser, hurrying to find fresh clothes because as funny as it would normally be to see Eddie blush like that from his indecency, right now it just made him feel that much more awkward. 

“Nothing,” Eddie said, sounding about as convincing as Richie.

“Yeah? ‘Cause you’re redder than my car, Eds.”

“Don’t call me Eds.”

“Are you going to sit there while I get dressed, or...” Richie stared at him, bundle of clothes in hand, while Eddie stayed put and stared defiantly at the cracked-open bedroom door. “Seriously, dude? I’m not going to do anything. I’m not Stan. Jesus Christ...” 

Richie was forced to go back into the bathroom to change, Eddie—for once—not having a comeback while he sat on the bed and waited. 

“Alright. What do you want?” Richie asked, feeling somewhat more human now that he’d had the chance to shower off and calm down—if he could even be considered calm when he still felt like he was about to vibrate out of his skin. 

“Do you… Do you remember back in Derry?” Eddie asked, looking down at his hands where he was picking at his nails. 

“Gonna have to be a little more specific than that,” Richie said, chucking his dirty clothes into his hamper and going to open the curtain over his balcony doors. 

“Derry,” he repeated, like Richie didn’t know what it was. “I brought...I brought two suitcases and a few travel bags. Do you… Do you remember that?” 

“I don’t pay attention to your luggage, Eddie,” Richie said, even though that wasn’t true. He’d teased him about it in the hospital when he was recovering—especially after meeting Myra.

_“What, did you take Mike’s call as an excuse to leave your wife?”_ he’d asked. Eddie called him a dick, then laughed a couple seconds later and had said a small, humored, _“Maybe,”_ which sounded to Richie an awful lot like a _yes._

“You asked if I was trying to run away from Myra after you met her,” Eddie told him, still picking at his nails—and then the hem of his exercise pants. “I think you were right. No, I… I know you were. She’d just gotten so…so overbearing. Always saying I didn’t tell her I loved her enough. Saying I didn’t love her at all because I worked late or whatever. And she was right. I...I don’t think I ever did. I don’t think I _knew_ I never did. I just never did.”

“I’m not the one you should be telling that to, champ,” Richie said, swallowing hard against the new round of butterflies in his stomach. Eddie wanting to leave his wife didn’t mean jack shit about their friendship—or what was left of it.

“Would you just listen!?” Eddie snapped, the familiar fire in his eyes when he looked up from his lap making Richie choke back an inappropriate smile. At least some things between them would never change.

( ) ( ) ( )

Eddie felt like his entire life had just crumbled down around him.

No, that wasn’t right.

It was as if the _visage_ shrouding the life he actually lived had come tumbling down like the walls of Neibolt and he was left staring at the dark, hideous pit of the truth in its wake. 

He had tried to leave Myra several times, always drawn back by fear or by doubt in himself. Myra loved him—or so she said. She took care of him, doted on him, protected him… Like Mother. She was, as Richie so often put it, just like his mother. Their marriage was built around her taking care of him while he provided for her—provided a house and stability and a partner to show off at her little company parties. He needed someone to make him feel protected and cared for, someone who didn’t question every one of his illnesses and ailments, and Myra needed someone to coddle and look after and obsess over. 

In short, she needed someone to control and Eddie had _thought_ he needed someone to control him. It didn’t mean he enjoyed it. He didn’t like being forced onto Myra’s stupid protein shake lunches. He didn’t like having his best dress shirts thrown out because she decided one day after he went for a run too soon after it had rained that they were irritating his asthma in some way. He didn’t like that she chased off his friends when he’d been in the hospital, or that she snapped at him any time he tried to watch Richie on TV. 

Sometimes, he wanted to get in her face and shout—he didn’t, of course. That was his _wife._ She was a woman and you didn’t _do_ that to women unless you were a psychotic, abusive asshole. Even so, sometimes he wanted to turn to her and scream at her—maybe just raise his voice just a _little_ the way he had to his mother back in Derry. 

And maybe he didn’t ever tell Myra off for chasing off his friends the way he did his mother, because when he’d come back from his first battle with It, he found his mother crying on the floor of their kitchen. He found her weeping with food sitting on the table, food that had been sitting there since dinner time the day he'd left. 

“I thought you left me, Eddie,” she had cried, not letting him close enough to touch her. She didn’t rush him into a bath. She didn’t panic and drag him to the ER—at least not right away. No, she had sat there and wept because he broke her heart. And that image of her, that snapshot of the woman who loved him more than anyone else ever could, devastated because of something he’d done, haunted him forever. Even when he’d forgotten about Derry, he still remembered that mental picture with no context to remind him that he’d done what he _had_ to and she was just a casualty of war.

And now, Eddie was feeling very much the same—only he got to choose who he wanted to shoot through the heart. Because he couldn’t spare both of them, both his best friend and his wife. He had a decision to make and little time to do it. 

After he’d heard Richie scream like his heart had been ripped out of his chest, Eddie felt the worst of the damage had already been done. Because he’d panicked. Because he’d run away like a coward. 

There were a million excuses for doing it swirling around in the back of his head, but excuses couldn’t save him now. Excuses wouldn’t get that devastated look off of Richie’s face. And, yeah, Richie had been way out of line just blurting out that Eddie needed to get a divorce and implying that Eddie had already left his wife for him. But he had a point… And it wasn’t his fault for seeing what Eddie was doing when Eddie didn’t understand his own movements himself. 

So, after finally getting Richie to come around and stand still—and shut up—long enough to talk to him, it still felt like he was chewing pieces of glass when Eddie finally said, “I don’t love Myra. Not… Not in that way. And there _is_ a reason I brought all my stuff to Derry, and it’s...fuck, it’s the same reason I brought all my shit here. I don’t want to go back. I want out from under her thumb—I want to be with someone who actually, you know, _gets_ who I am. Besides all my sicknesses, someone who actually gets _me.”_

“Well, you’ve still got Bill and Ben and—”

“I wanted to be with you, asshole!” Eddie finally snapped. “You were the first person who popped into my head when I saw that phone number from Derry come up on my dashboard! I didn’t know who the fuck Mike was, but I remembered you. And then I crashed my fucking car and left my fucking wife to go see you in Derry—and almost got killed by a motherfucking _space clown_ just to keep hanging out with you!” 

Richie was silent for all of five seconds, his lips pursed and his eyes cast down toward the floor. Eddie knew him well enough not to expect anything serious to come out of his mouth, no matter how quiet and pensive he was for the moment. So, when Richie looked up at him, eyes _almost_ hopeful, it didn’t surprise Eddie one bit when all he said was, “What was I wearing? You know, when I popped up in your head?”

“I don’t know! Probably a fuckin’ tacky Hawaiian shirt. Seriously, dude. Do you even own anything else?”

“Hm...” Richie nodded his head, eyes back on the carpeted floor of his bedroom. 

“That’s it? That’s all I get? ‘Hm’!?” Eddie’s heart was about to pound out of his chest, and though he probably, definitely, deserved it for leaving Richie to get himself worked up to the point he was violently sick, he couldn’t take it. He was never one to handle stress well, and though he had anxiety meds in his bag, he wasn’t about to leave to go pop them and come back. 

“I don’t know. I don’t know what you want me to say, Eds.” And in an instant, that shimmer of hope was gone and Richie was back to looking tried and disinterested. 

“Tell me what you thought—tell me… Tell me why _you_ went back to Derry.”

“’Cause I had friends there. And I made a _promise._ Not just for you. I’m not that kind of crazy.”

“I didn’t say it was _just_ for you! Can—Can we please just talk about this?”

“I am! I _am_ talking! What are you trying to get me to say here!? That I went back to Derry just to see you? I didn’t! Yeah, I might’ve...might’ve had a _thing_ for you, alright? A stupid, fucked up thing, since we were kids, but that doesn’t mean my whole world revolves around you. I’m not Myra, alright? I _have_ a life. With or without you in it.” His face was red and his eyes looked tearful again despite how much anger they held. For a split second, Eddie was almost afraid of him. Afraid of what, he didn’t know—but the panic started to flood him regardless. 

He was trying to fix things, and it felt like everything he did was wrong. Maybe now wasn’t the time, or maybe he’d just missed his chance when he left Richie alone after he’d let out that horrid, agonized scream. 

“I’m… I’m just trying to say I want to be in it. Your life, I mean.”

“Well, congratulations. I’ll order you a Members Only jacket when the pandemic is over and the world’s open for business.”

“Rich...” 

“What!? What do you want from me?” As quickly as it had come, the fight fled him and he was left standing there with his arms hanging limp at his sides. 

Eddie didn’t really know how to answer him, thinking he’d been obvious about what he’d wanted and now starting to second guess himself. Did _he_ even know what he wanted? Was it too soon to tell if it was real or if he was just panicking because he knew Richie was hurt and it was his fault and he was desperate to take it back?

“Look, I was never gonna make a move, alright? We can be friends like it never happened. We can pretend this whole thing never happened.” Richie made a dismissive gesture with his hands, then crossed his arms protectively over his chest as he leaned back against the sliding glass door. 

Eddie was suddenly worried his weight against the glass would make it shatter—would send him tumbling, somehow, over the railing to his demise. The panic must’ve shown on his face, because Richie’s brow furrowed in confusion and he shifted around uncomfortably. 

“In the meantime, it’s probably best if you go home to Myra,” he said, not looking Eddie in the face. “You can call me or whatever… I’ll send you back all that canned food and shit. I don’t need it. Just send me some potatoes and peppers if they’ve got any in New York. I kind of need to do my meal prep.”

“I’m not going back to New York,” Eddie said, looking down at his lap again. 

“You can’t just stay here, alright? What good would it do? It’s just going to be awkward now and—”

“I never planned to go back to New York.”

“What, you were just going to fake your death? Myra would figure out one way or another that you’re not at some hotel—”

“I didn’t think that far ahead. I just...knew I’d rather be stuck in your house with you than…than _my_ house with her.”

“Good to know I’m better than your overbearing wife. Do I get a trophy?”

“I’m trying to tell you something, asshole!”

“Oh, I’m the asshole!? You invited yourself into my _house!_ Okay? Into my _home!_ I never asked you to come here! You showed up out of _nowhere_ complaining about your wife, then get pissed off at me for calling you out on your bullshit!”

“I was scared!” Eddie screamed. “I didn’t want you to die!”

“Newsflash! We all fucking die, Eddie! I’m an adult—I can take care of myself! Unlike you!”

He was getting nastier and nastier by the second, and Eddie’s mind was racing as he tried to figure out why. He had to take a puff from his inhaler, trying to use the split second of downtime as his lungs were filled with medicine, to figure out what to say to get him the hell out of dodge before Richie really _did_ say something he couldn’t take back.

Eddie felt like his heart was about to beat out of his chest, the noise of Richie shouting at him becoming a dull roar in the back of his head. He thought of Myra, he thought of his hospital room and how her presence coming into the room had filled him with dread while Richie’s had brought life and energy. Richie never treated him like he was fragile. Richie didn’t warn him not to strain himself any time he opened his mouth to speak…

It was like Neibolt—You’re braver than you think. 

Richie had said that… Myra would’ve told him he needed to pack up and go home and keep his head down. Stay safe. Leave all his friends to die.

Richie didn’t want Eddie to stay weak and afraid. He wanted him to realize his potential, wanted him to do better. Eddie had always known that. Even when they were kids, Richie was the one always luring him out of his house when he was getting over his “sickness.” Richie always took his ailments into consideration—like the pizza and wings last night—but never let them hold him back.

Hold them back… 

None of the others had fought so hard to keep Eddie in their group when his mother was desperate to pull him away. None of the other Losers stuck around after Myra chased them off. Just Richie.

And Richie had been the only one Eddie wanted to see anyway. 

All of this and more swirled tirelessly around in Eddie’s brain as Richie shouted and screamed and started breaking down again because Eddie wasn’t answering him.

“I think… I think I always knew about you, Richie,” Eddie said, not even sure his friend could hear him because he spoke in the middle of one of Richie’s half shouted, half sobbed sentences. “Since we were kids. I always wondered why you were always hanging around. Like, literally fucking _always_ around. No matter how many times my mom told you to go away, you kept coming back. None of the others did. They all gave up after a while, even Bill. But not you. I never said anything about it, never...never let myself think about it too much. Just, sometimes it’d cross my mind, you know? ‘Why’s Richie always stealing _my_ pencils?’ ‘Why’s Richie always sticking gross magazines in _my_ locker and not somebody else’s?’ Because Richie liked me...and I didn’t care, so I let you keep doing it. Made a lot more sense when I was older. Took a lot of pills to make sure I didn’t think about it too much after Derry.”

“Sorry I made you a drug addict?” Richie offered, the inflection in his voice still marred and rough with tears.

“I love you, too, Richie… I always did.” Saying it took all the air out of Eddie’s lungs and his hand was shaking so badly when he tried to use his inhaler that he dropped it. There were spots in his vision as he tried to fumble around for it, hanging halfway off Richie’s bed while trying desperately to suck in more air. 

“Jesus Christ, you’re such a fucking shit show,” Richie said, clapping the inhaler down into Eddie’s hand. He practically had the right to throw the damned thing off his balcony after how Eddie had treated him that afternoon, but instead he was merciful. Like he always was. Eddie, as undeserving as ever. “Now, what the fuck were you trying to say? I don’t speak Wheezer. Wheezanese?”

“You fucking heard me...asshole,” Eddie choked, gulping down air like he’d been drowning. 

“Say it ain’t so?”

“What?” Eddie choked, knowing just by the tone of his voice that Richie was trying to fuck with him. Why now of all times, he didn’t know. Probably because Eddie looked like he was about to die, and no matter how angry he was, Richie wouldn’t want that to happen.

“Why bother?”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Eddie asked, rubbing at his face as he got his breathing under control.

“Weezer. I’m speaking Weezanese. I thought you were fluent. You know. Asthma and all.”

“I don’t listen to Weezer! I’m trying to be serious, here.”

“Fine, but I still have no clue what the fuck you said because all I heard was,” he paused to make a dramatic gasping sound, “Richie,” more gasping, “always—”

“I said I _fucking loved you too,_ asshole! You’re a fucking asshole!”

“Eddie, come on—”

“No! You’re not listening to me!”

“You’re not _saying_ anything!”

Eddie stopped to let out a frustrated scream, tempted to chuck his inhaler at Richie’s dumb, tear-stained face. “Back in Derry! At the hospital! I didn’t want you to leave! Myra chased you out because she was jealous! She was jealous I got happier to see you than her!”

“Yeah, your wife sucks. I’m a gem. So what? That doesn’t mean anything, Eds. Don’t do this. Let’s just forget what happened downstairs, okay? Let’s just forget and—”

“I don’t want to forget! I want… I want to stay here. I don’t deserve it after everything and...and I _know_ it just looks like I’m trying to run away from Myra, but… I-I love you. I do. In _that_ way. I think… No, I know… I _know._ And I was a dick for shouting at you and for running away. I didn’t mean to hurt you, I just…I didn’t think about it, you know? I wanted to hide it. I thought if...if I _believed_ I wasn’t, then I wasn’t. But I am… And you were right. There’s a reason I’m in California with you and not in New York with Myra. Honestly, Richie...being with her for more than three days straight is like torture. I don’t want locked in a house with her.”

“So… I’m supposed to just...buy all that and let you stay?” Richie asked. When Eddie looked up at him, he had his face turned away toward the wall, blue eyes clouded over and hazy. “Look, I’m sorry I made you realize you hate your wife—”

Eddie deserved it. He knew he deserved every bit of the skepticism and coldness Richie was showing him, but it didn’t make it any easier to stomach. He wanted to fix this—not just so he had a place to hide out for the quarantine, but because Richie was his best friend. Before anything else, he was his closest, truest friend—the one he could count on to be real with him, to be _honest_ with him. He didn’t want to lose that because he’d panicked. He didn’t want to ruin their friendship and any chance he had for...for maybe more if...if things started to go that way. If they _could_ go that way—at their age, at this stage of their lives. 

Even so, Eddie had started to feel helpless and desperate. If everything was ruined anyways, why not just fucking go for broke and shatter every little piece that was left? It sounded a fuck of a lot like Richie was telling him to pack up and get out, with the promise that they’d both ‘forget’ and act like nothing happened once he was safely back in New York under Myra’s thumb. Eddie wasn’t going back there without a fight, and since slapping sense into Richie at this point in the game wasn’t going to work—Eddie did the only other thing that came to mind.

He saw it in a lot of movies so...so maybe it’d work. 

Richie was harping on him and Eddie shot up from the bed and stormed toward him, quick enough that it must’ve scared Richie because he slammed back against that damned sliding glass door that, at some point, was _going_ to break. A moment later, he had his hands on Richie’s cheeks, palms scraping against his rough stubble, and had pulled the other man’s mouth against his own in a hard, dry, awkward kiss. 

Richie’s hands shot up like he was about to shove Eddie away, but they just stayed frozen up by his shoulders. Eddie could feel Richie’s whole body go rigid and then start to tremble, all the while he kept his eyes squeezed shut and his lips on Richie’s, determined to stay put until either a) he ran out of breath, or b) Richie shoved him away.

Or c) the magical movie moment where the leading lady melts into the kiss and starts kissing back.

None of the three happened.

Eddie realized he was feeling uncomfortable long before he ran out of oxygen, Richie neither reciprocating nor rejecting the advance, and Eddie was left pulling back, face flushed, and grasping at straws to find something to say.

It did shut Richie up though, so that was a win, right?

“Did you just… Sorry, my brain whited out for a second. Did you just fucking kiss me?” Richie asked, sounding shaken and baffled. 

“Yeah. So?” Eddie snapped. “Probably caught the fucking Coronavirus while I was at it. God knows where the fuck your mouth has been.” He still couldn’t look at Richie, which he thought was probably making things infinitely worse. He lifted his hand to wipe at his mouth, suddenly thinking about all the viruses and bacteria carried by human saliva—then felt himself yanked forward by his wrist into a kiss he wasn’t prepared for.

And, okay, yeah, he kind of got the message now. It wasn’t half as romantic or appealing as the movies made it seem. Mostly he was just startled from being grabbed and terrified because he didn’t know if Richie was about to pull back and make fun of him or not. 

Richie, it seemed, was a hell of a lot more versed in kissing than Eddie would have even given him credit for. His hand went from seizing Eddie’s arm to slowly trailing up to rest on his cheek—his scarred cheek—and used the slightest of pressure on his jaw to push Eddie’s mouth in closer, to angle it up in just the right way. He nodded his head the slightest bit, working his lips against Eddie’s until his lips parted and then, all at once, Richie Tozier’s fucking tongue was in Eddie’s mouth.

Eddie jerked back from him, his own hands rising up defensively as he faltered back a step—staring at Richie wide-eyed and red in the face.

“Too much?” Richie asked, mirroring Eddie’s defensive gesture as if he, too, had been startled. 

“No,” Eddie said, shaking his head and then wiping his mouth on the sleeve of his shirt. “Just—Sorry, yeah, kind of. Warn a guy before you go sticking parts of your body into them, would you? Jeez.”

“I will ask permission before...sticking parts of my body in you...from now on?” Richie offered, forcing Eddie to realize just what he’d said—what he’d implied. 

“Thanks,” Eddie muttered, still too afraid to look Richie in the face as he recovered from the loud, heavy pounding in his chest. 

“So… So, wow. Okay… Uh, shit...” Richie stammered and grappled for words, all the while Eddie wiped at his mouth and fidgeted. 

Why’d he do that? Why did he kiss him? There was no coming back from this. There was no _pretending_ they didn’t just…

“Yeah. Shit,” Eddie echoed. 

“So… So if I keep my body parts out of your body...can I do that again?” Richie asked, sounding like an eager little kid in a way that made Eddie’s stomach flip. “Or was that a one time thing?”

Eddie hated how he hesitated to answer, hated that his first thought was “yes, please!” and his second was, immediately, “what about Myra?” Neither of them spoke of her in the silence that followed, even though she was definitely on both of their minds. 

“I think… Yeah, I think I’m going to go get a drink. I think the liquor store is still open and I definitely need to stock up—”

Richie tried to walk away from him and Eddie latched onto his wrist as firmly and forcefully as if Richie had just said he was about to fling himself into a raging inferno. Their lips met again and Eddie wasn’t exactly sure who started it this time. He had his hand on Richie’s cheek and Richie’s hands were on his hips, pulling him in so close Eddie could feel his body heat despite the millimeters of space between their bodies. Richie kept his tongue in his own mouth this time, but their mouths were still working against one another, lips sliding together on a mixture of both their spit which, at first, was really disgusting—until Eddie let his mind shut down and a moan tore itself from those same, slick lips.

He was the one who closed the distance between them, his body seeming to fall against Richie’s of its own accord while their mouths stayed smashed together even as Richie’s stubble had started to really burn his chin and upper lip. It was as if he’d been dying, lost in the desert with no food or water, and had tumbled head-first into an oasis. Richie pulling away to breathe left Eddie whining, as if the mirage had moved several more feet into the distance and he was left thirsty and starved again—then, when their lips touched again, he was at peace. All was as it should be. He was fed and hydrated and happy. His whole body was shaking with an electricity he didn’t think he’d ever felt before.

No, he’d certainly never felt it before. 

Eddie kept his hands on Richie’s face, keeping his trapped in the kiss whether he wanted it or not. 

The way the other man’s fingers tensed on the arches of his hips was assurance enough that Richie wanted it as much, if not more, than him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the cliffhanger of angst last time! Wrapping it up this chapter to get back to our regularly scheduled shenanigans. I hope you're not disappointed with how this works out!


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The last of the big angst, I think, before we scootch on over into some more, uh...fluffy waters.

In a fantasy world, Richie believed what would have happened next would consist of him strategically backing Eddie onto his bed and laying him down, never once breaking their kiss. He would’ve climbed over him, shed layers of clothes maybe, and asked permission to put parts of his body into Eddie’s body—as his new… (Uh…what were they exactly?) had so eloquently put it.

What actually happened though, was Eddie breaking their kiss and wiping off his mouth. They said short, awkward sentences to each other while laughing nervously before Eddie dipped out of the room to go brush his teeth...and wash his face...and gargle mouthwash like he’d just fallen mouth-first into a pile of dog shit. With anyone else, Richie would’ve felt slighted, maybe hurt, but with Eddie, it just seemed so _like him_ that Richie just rolled his eyes and shuffled away from the closed bathroom door. He’d been listening to hear if Eddie threw up from kissing him. If he did, there was no way what happened had been legitimate, just a weird, desperate attempt at keeping Richie from getting depressed and going out to the liquor store to commit suicide by Coronavirus. 

Richie wandered downstairs to turn on the television, purposefully skipping past the news channels to settle on an action-thriller that was playing on what used to be Spike TV. What the fuck was “Paramount Network”? Sounded pretty lame and sissy and if you asked Richie Tozier—and he was anything but...okay, some might be able to say with some legitimacy that he was a sissy, but he wasn’t lame. Paramount Network sounded almost educational, and _Crank_ want anything but educational.

Unless you’re studying early 2000’s film editing and special effects, then—oh, hey, Eddie was done bleaching his mouth.

“We are _not_ watching this,” Eddie said, ripping the remote control out of Richie’s hand and changing the station, cutting off the highly edited scene of Amy Smart getting bent over a newspaper dispenser. 

“Hey! It was getting to the good part,” Richie complained, rolling his eyes and dropping into his recliner as Eddie put it back on the news. 

“The only good part of that movie is the end credits,” Eddie retorted. He sank down into the couch and shuffled to get comfy while turning up the volume on the blanket coverage of the virus. Footage of long lines outside grocery stores, interviews with people who were running low on toilet paper and non-perishable food at home.

“My daughter, my six-year-old daughter, just wants SpaghettiOs,” one ‘worried father’ said to the anchor in the street. “I don’t know what to tell her because once you get in the store, the shelves are just empty. Everything’s gone. Everything!”

“Can you believe that?” Eddie asked, shaking his head—looking all sorts of worried and puzzled. 

“Tch. No. What kid actually _wants_ SpaghettiOs? I’m not buying it,” Richie said, earning himself a stern glare. 

“People are _starving,_ Rich. They—”

“They’re not starving. You wanna know who’s starving? Who’s _actually_ starving? The homeless. _They’re_ the ones you need to be worried about. This guy in his little baseball shirt and his kids, they’re gonna be fine. They can order pizza a couple nights and the kids’ll love it. Then, maybe he can get to the store and wait in line before twelve o’clock and get something.”

They argued about it for a good twenty minutes, insulting each other back and forth like they hadn’t just locked lips upstairs in his bedroom, like they weren’t sitting on an under-discussed atom bomb about to go off. 

“I’m not feeling bad for these people, Eds! It’s not gonna happen. There’s _food._ It’s just not what you wanna eat. If you’re so worried about it, go donate your stockpile.”

Eddie was quiet for a long time, and when Richie looked over at him, he had his jaw clenched shut and was breathing deeply—not like he was about to need his inhaler, but like he was pissed off...or about to cry.

“What?” Richie asked, his tone exhausted. He hadn’t meant to upset him. Jesus Christ, could this day get any worse?

“We’re all going to die. That’s just it. We’re all going to fucking die.”

“Oh, my God! You’re not going to die! People’ll figure out shit’s not going anywhere and they’ll stop buying it all. We have plenty of food—you’ve got plenty more at home with Myra. We’re not going to starve, we’re not going to get sick—we’re _fine.”_

But Eddie wasn’t listening to him. His eyes were on the TV, watching the scary red bar graphs with their rapidly increasing numbers. He was letting these anchors terrorize him, letting the strategically cut interviews push him closer and closer to tears as people described running out of their essentials—oh, please, my child is high risk and we’re out of bleach! 

Yeah, it was chaos. It was frightening and it would probably drive Richie insane too if he let himself give half a shit. But he couldn’t afford to lose his head. He couldn’t give in to the hype and it made his chest ache to see Eddie getting so worked up by it.

He understood—of course he understood that Eddie was high risk, that he could be one of those people who died alone in the hospital if he caught it because of his asthma. He knew why Eddie was scared, but what he didn’t understand was why he kept watching the news and torturing himself with it. Yeah, please stay informed and up to date, but what good did these interviews do anyone?

Oh? There’s aisles and aisles of empty shelves? So what? What can you do about it? Nothing. 

Restaurants and bars are closing, leaving workers jobless and desperately waiting for unemployment checks that would take months to come? Yes, now that was tragic. _That_ was scary. Those were the ones who might starve. But, aside from donating to charities that were going to take a pretty penny off the top, what could he do? 

Richie donated and contributed and kept his eyes on the charities he worked with, but otherwise...he was just as helpless as the guy wanting SpaghettiOs for his daughter. It did not good to keep watching these interviews and panicking. 

“Eds, give me the remote.”

“No.”

“Eddie, come on. You don’t need to watch this. Nothing’s changed since yesterday.”

“I’m watching this,” he said, sniffing as his eyes stayed fixed on the screen.

“Well, it’s my TV.”

“Fine! Asshole,” Eddie snapped, chucking the remote at him and missing by a good two feet. The remote smacked against the far wall so hard that the back cover popped off and one of the batteries went rolling.

“Nice job, jackass,” Richie muttered, though he really wasn’t that bothered by it, as he got up to retrieve the remote. He flipped through the channels until he ended up on QVC, and then he only paused because Eddie seemed to perk up at the sight of some fruit trees the lady was selling. 

Apparently QVC was an essential service. Who’d’ve thunk it.

Richie watched Eddie’s facial expression out of the corner of his eye while settling back into his recliner, waiting to see if he’d lose interest in the soft-speaking woman who fawned over photos and footage of citrus trees.

“You ever bought anything from them?” Eddie asked.

“No, not really.”

“Wouldn’t be a bad idea… You know, get some fruit trees or something in case this lasts a while. Oranges would be good… Or lemons. I like lemonade.”

For the moment, Richie passed on making a piss joke as he watched Eddie’s eyes slowly become less watery as he stared at the screen, listening to a viewer call-in testimonial about how great the tress are, how big they were when they arrived. 

It wasn’t how Richie wanted to spend the rest of his afternoon, but he preferred it infinitely over the blanket COVID-19 coverage or the discussion they needed to have. The gentle voices of the hosts and salespeople kept Eddie sedate and focused. He didn’t like the flowers (allergies) or the ornamental grasses (allergies), but he liked the palm trees and fruit trees and berry bushes and succulents. He was still staring at the screen, listening to caller after caller after caller go on about the wonderful berries they grew at home—or lemons, or cacti, or pomegranates. Pomegranates!? Who the fuck grew pomegranates in their own house?—while Richie toiled around the kitchen making them some dinner, repurposing what he’d bought for stuffed peppers and his meal prep since ingredients were missing now. 

Like it or not, he was going to have to join the ranks of the people in line at the grocery store and Eddie was not going to like it one bit. 

He was halfway through the dinner he was making when Eddie’s phone started to ring. He didn’t know why—yes, he did—but it made his skin prickle and he found himself on the verge of hyperventilating while he chopped up, first, rainbow carrots, then an onion, a clove of garlic, and then the few red-skinned potatoes he had left in the bag.

“No, no—everything’s fine. How are you? How’s the home office coming along? Uh-huh… No kidding? That’s great! That’s just great, Myra… What’s that?” 

Richie shook his head as he dumped the chopped potatoes into a bowl with the carrots and garlic, trying hard not to let himself eavesdrop on the conversation between the _man he kissed four hours ago_ and his wife. Four fucking hours of soft-spoken fruit salesmen. Most expensive date ever, right?

While he’s digging through his cabinets for spices, he listens to Eddie tell Myra that he misses her—that he wishes he could see her. He listens to Eddie laugh at whatever she says, feeling sicker by the second. Richie almost started to believe that maybe everything that happened upstairs had been a fever dream. Maybe he’d blacked out puking his guts out and his brain made the whole thing up. How could Eddie claim he never really meant to go home, claim he _loved him too,_ and then talk to Myra like nothing was wrong? He was lying to one of them, and Richie had been knocked down enough times in his life that he knew it wasn’t Myra.

Richie ended up cutting himself while dicing raw beef, the hiss of pain he let out going unnoticed by Eddie who was still chatting idly with his wife in the next room while the plant show droned on. Most of the blood ended up in the sink, only a little on the cutting board and knife. Richie got the uncompromised cubes onto a separate plate, then tossed the ones he’d bled on into the trash while holding a paper towel to his finger. Now would be a great time to page Dr. Kaspbrak, Richie thought, if only it wouldn’t mean Eddie wouldn’t touch their meal. 

He could say whatever he wanted, but Richie knew for a fact Eddie wouldn’t be able to stomach meat that a queer had bled on. His little subconscious would warn of HIV and he’d be packing up and running back home to his wife in no time. 

Still, the bleeding made no signs of stopping and Richie had to work single-handed while changing out paper towels—still breathing heavy as Eddie talked to his wife. 

Why the fuck had Eddie kissed him? Why’d he go and get his hopes up like that? 

And just as the thought entered his head, another voice yelled at him to ask what he would do in Eddie’s situation. Would he just ignore Myra’s calls? Would he answer and immediately confess? 

No. No, he wouldn’t. But, even so, it was hard not to feel slighted. 

He’d bled through five paper towels from his _fucking finger_ by the time he’d started frying up the cubes of beef in the skillet. He kind of wished he could ask Eddie to watch it for him so he could go superglue his finger shut and stop the bleeding, but knew he couldn’t. Still it was hard as hell not to burn everything when he only had one hand to tend to two skillets on his stove top. One was frying up the beef and the other had just caramelized the onions in olive oil since he couldn’t use butter for Eddie’s sake. He added the potatoes and carrots and garlic, then more oil, changed his paper towel again, then tended the beef—scooting it over to the other skillet so he could throw together some kind of gravy with the grease it left behind. 

Would be a lot easier if his finger wasn’t throbbing, but not much he could do about that…

Probably shouldn’t have started the vegetables just yet, he thought to himself as he fucked with the grease in the beef’s old skillet. Red pasta sauce, just a bit, a cube of beef bouillon, some water, a fuck load of herbs, a bay leaf—because his mom taught him to throw that shit in everything—and a lot of stirring. When it had a consistency that wasn’t awful, he dumped it into the skillet where his veggies were slowly sizzling away with the medium-rare meat and put the other skillet into the sink. He stirred his food, covered it, lowered the heat, and finally took the chance to tend to his hand. 

Definitely needed superglue—and badly. 

He passed one last look at the back of Eddie’s head, where he could see him from the doorway—a jealous look, though he would never admit it to himself—and then hurried upstairs to his office where he last remembered having the little tube of glue. He’d broken the glass shade of his desk lamp teaching himself yo-yo tricks and the glue was at the bottom of the lamp where he’d left it. 

Richie took the tube with him into the bathroom where Eddie had lined up all his prescription bottles, all his toiletries, all his _shit,_ and washed his hands—careful not to bleed on anything. He didn’t have AIDS, not a chance (he never even dabbled in intravenous drugs when he’d been at his peak in the early days of his career), but he knew his blood would terrify Eddie and as mad as he was, he couldn’t bring himself to risk a stray drop landing anywhere. 

He cleaned the—yeah, okay, it was pretty bad—cut in his finger, then quickly dabbed it dry on a piece of toilet paper and glued it shut. The sting hurt worse than the cut itself, but he hissed through the pain and took a bandage from the first aid kit Eddie had sitting on the upper left-hand corner of the counter. Travel-size, no doubt a complimentary set to the full-size one he was hiding somewhere in his luggage, but with more than enough bandages to hide and protect his cut.

When he got back downstairs, Eddie was still on the phone with Myra, but the tone had changed and Eddie had moved from the living room to the kitchen where he was stirring the beef stew.

“Yes. Yes, Myra. Yes, I’m taking my—yes, I’m taking my medication. I don’t know—I _don’t_ know! Maybe because you’re yelling at me. Did you ever think of that? Maybe you yelling at me triggers my anxiety. People don’t like to get _yelled_ at, Myra.”

Richie, even across the room, could hear the woman bawl out, “I’m not yelling! I’m worried!”

“You _are_ yelling. You’re _yelling_ at me, Myra.”

“Good luck getting her to treat you like an adult, Eds,” Richie said, keeping his voice low as he came to reclaim his spot by the stove. “She’s already used to calling the shots.”

He expected Eddie to snap at him, glare at him, mute his phone and punch him maybe. Instead, Eddie tipped his forehead down against Richie’s shoulder and just...stayed there. Richie stirred the stew while listening to Myra cry and give excuses—Oh, she just loved him. Oh, she just worried. Oh, how she couldn’t handle not knowing if he was alright. If Eddie tried to speak, she talked over him. Richie couldn’t help but think she sounded exactly like Mrs. K when she’d yelled at Richie and all of his friends, calling them monsters, because Eddie broke his arm. All the while, Eddie had sat in the passenger seat of her car, shaking and stressing and worrying—not looking at them.

He was much the same now, only more composed. More resigned? Richie felt that shaking rage bleed out of him as the sauce in the pan grew thicker and thicker along with Myra’s annoyance. He stepped away from Eddie long enough to whip up instant mashed potatoes from one of the pouches Eddie had sent him. 

Richie skimmed over the ingredients, a weird reflex he didn’t even know he’d developed or even possessed—making sure the product Eddie had sent him was Eddie-Safe. Most instant potatoes had some sort of butter or dairy or gluten, he thought. But not these—of course not. These were from Eddie’s stash, and why would his stash contain something he couldn’t eat?

He brandished the little Organic 100% Flaked Potatoes and shook it, rattling it until he got Eddie’s sad, brown eyes to look up at him from the floor. 

“Po-Ta-Toes,” he mouthed, tapping the syllables on the label, making a _Lord of the Rings_ reference that Eddie silent chuckled at while shaking his head, seeming to come out of his trance a bit. 

“Myra, I gotta go. I need to eat—”

“Eat!? Eddie, it is after ten o’clock! What do you mean you need to _eat!?”_

“Sleep,” Eddie corrected, looking every bit like a caught child as he stared at Richie who turned back to his cabinet of pots and pans, selecting a stoneware dish safe to boil water in. Usually, he’d make his instant potatoes with milk, but he didn’t want Eddie’s guts to explode from potentially self-induced lactose intolerance, so he suffered without them. “Love you, Myra. Bye.”

He hung up, and she called right back. 

“Want me to get that?” Richie asked, smirking at Eddie while keeping his eyes defiantly on his salted, not-yet-boiling pot of water.

“No,” Eddie said, his voice sounding oddly like it had in Neibolt—when he’d backed himself into a wall and Bill had been yelling at him. Richie didn’t really know what the two of them had been saying, too distracted by the gross taste in his mouth from Spidey-Stan’s spit and the fact that his glasses were covered in slimy goo, but he’d heard Eddie’s voice—worried and scared and sad.

The phone quit ringing for all of fifteen seconds, then started up again.

“She’s not gonna quit, dude,” Richie said.

“Uh-uh,” Eddie said, as if in agreement. He sounded a little petrified—though Richie guessed he did just get himself caught. Myra was a little naive, a little crazy, but she wasn’t stupid. Richie knew from the look she gave him in the hospital that she was onto his shit from the get-go. No, Myra was anything but dumb.

She was probably working out timelines at this point, doing the math to see what timezone would make ten at night in New York dinnertime somewhere else. Wouldn’t be long before she figured out California. Wouldn’t be long before she started to suspect Richie.

“Dude, really. She’s not going to stop,” Richie said when the phone started up again for the fourth time.

“Battery’ll eventually die,” Eddie said, laughing nervously. “Uh, plates or bowls?” 

“Your call,” Richie said, answering both statements at once.

Eddie reached past him to lift the lid on the skillet. He stirred the stew, finding it too thick to be soup and too runny to be gravy.

“Bowl. Definitely bowl… Uh, did you use butter for—”

“Olive oil. I’m not gonna poison you, Eds.” And he felt just a little proud saying it even if Eddie just nodded and got out their dishes. 

_The_ dishes. Their dishes? What the fuck. Nothing in this condo was theirs. A little cart before the horse there, Tozier, old pal. 

Eventually, Eddie did turn off his phone and they sat together awkwardly at the dining room table with their bowls of mashed potatoes and runny beef stew. Would’ve been better with butter...with milk or sour cream in the instant potatoes, if the beef had been breaded or even dusted with flour, but still good. 

“I never even imagined that you knew how to cook,” Eddie said, his eyes having been glued on his bowl since they sat down. 

“Ah. And think about all the other secret skills I possess. Cooking today, ironing tomorrow.”

“I bet you don’t even have an iron.”

“Eds… Eds, look at me,” Richie said, having to try a little harder to get one, simpering glance from his...friend, the friend he kissed. His friend who had a tiny smile on his face that Richie didn’t know how to justify so he did his best to ignore it. “I go on TV sometimes. I know—I know that’s crazy. People let me on the air! And you best believe my mother would turn in her grave if I was sitting on the Ellen DeGeneres show with wrinkled pants.”

Eddie stared at him, slack-jawed, wide-eyed… Like Richie just told him he’d killed a man and hid the body under his pool. He even set his fork down onto his napkin and fell back in his chair.

“Why the fuck did I even come here!?” He exclaimed. Richie would’ve been hurt, maybe, would’ve felt a twinge of irritation or possibly even anger—but instead he just felt like laughing. And so he did. Which served to piss off Eddie even more, though he tried to hide his pout by stuffing food in his mouth until he bit into the bay leaf Richie forgot to fish out. (Or maybe slipped into Eddie’s bowl on purpose.) After that, Richie just laughed out loud while Eddie sputtered and grimaced and called him foul names. 

“Not so helpless, am I?” Richie asked once Eddie calmed down. It earned him a stern glance that didn’t soften no matter how long Richie held his gaze.

( ) ( ) ( )

The note on the refrigerator left Eddie grasping for his inhaler and feeling little relief once he’d pressed the plunger and sucked in all he could to his aching lungs. 

_Out 4 Reel Potots. MayB Chx. The Bird Kind Not The Hot Kind. TxT 4 Requests. Left @ 6 in Hazmat Suit. God Speed._

It was a quarter past seven. Most stores weren’t opening until eight a.m. meaning Richie was waiting in the queues to get in—possibly not even six-feet apart from the person in front of him. What if one of them had a cough? What if some jackoff was in that line with Richie, not wearing a mask and coughing all over everyone!?

Eddie had gotten up to make some coffee before setting to work on his laptop. His boss knew he was in a different timezone and was willing to accept the change in hours so long as Eddie didn’t miss any meetings that were scheduled for earlier times. He was supposed to get up, make coffee, and dial in. Now, he was having a panic attack on the floor of the kitchen because Richie was out there trying to bring contagions into his home for the sake of fucking potatoes.

Why did he think Eddie sent him the canned food!? Why did he think Eddie had sent him so much stuff from his stockpile? Not so he could go out and put them both at risk for fucking _potatoes and chicken!_

Eddie sent him a long, scathing text after clearing away all the missed call notifications from Myra the...night before.

She hadn’t sent him a good morning text like she had the past few days, even though he’d woken up and sent her one earlier, and he worried if he’d really hurt her. He guessed that was inevitable, though. 

He’d _kissed_ Richie the day before. He’d laid his head on Richie’s shoulder while he cooked dinner—an act that made him shudder in disgust now. Not because of Richie, not because he was ashamed of the feelings he had bubbling to the surface—but because he’d done so while Myra yelled at him. 

He turned to Richie for comfort after hurting him so badly just hours before, and Richie had stood there and taken it. 

Eddie’s attention snapped back down to his phone when he received an answer from Richie, a cheeky, “Oooo am I in trouble?” To this, Eddie replied that he would be working when Richie got home and not to bother him—not for anything.

“Not even for...red potatoes? Gold potatoes? Purple potatoes? I am Potato Master!” This was accompanied by a photo of Richie’s shopping cart full of potatoes and more veggies and meat. There was what looked like a container of vegan cheese in the top basket and Eddie felt his chest start to tighten again—this time with something besides panic or rage.

“Coconut milk creamer if you can find it? Rice milk. Would be in a box not refrigerated. If you can’t find it that’s fine.”

He got a thumbs up emoji in response, then stuffed his phone into his pajama pant’s pocket and got started on his coffee. He enjoyed a cup with some fresh fruit Richie had in the fridge, then went upstairs to shower and get ready for his first day telecommuting from California. 

Just as soon as he’d settled in to work, he did receive a text from Myra that had his stomach twisting into knots before he even read the preview. 

It was _exactly_ eight a.m.

“Good MORNING, Eddie… How is LA?”

There was no way for her to know where he was. There was _no way_ for her to know where he was. 

He told himself this over and over again as he typed a bogus answer to her text.

“Is this about last night? Listen, I’m sorry. I’d been drinking.” He hoped that would distract her. She hated it when he drank even though he really, seldom did. It counteracted with so many of his medications and just generally made him feel slugging. The other night with Richie had been a rare indulgence.

“I called the hotel you lied about. They have no record of you.” The fact that she wasn’t calling to say this also made Eddie uneasy. He thought maybe she was too upset, maybe crying—but she tended to use tears as a weapon and would gladly bring them out now.

“I don’t know why they’d say that. Did you call my room number?” He’d gone so far as to set up a google phone number that would ring to an app on his phone, just to cover his tracks. Not that it did any good.

“I know you’re not in the city, Eddie….”

He hadn’t needed one to start with, but Eddie was stumbling away from the little nook he’d set up for himself at Richie’s dinning room table to work in order to go upstairs for his tranquilizers. He hated trying to work when his head was foggy, but there was no way in hell he’d be productive without them now. He had to take another puff from his aspirator on the way back downstairs, too. 

As soon as he reached his makeshift desk, his cell phone started to ring.

Myra. 

And he couldn’t avoid her. He had no right. He’d done what he’d done. He’d said what he’d said… 

Eddie imagined himself back down in the cistern, staring up in shock at Richie’s body levitating in the Deadlights. All the emotions he’d felt then came crashing back into him now. Feelings he’d repressed, memories he’d tamped down. If it had been anyone else up there, Eddie might not have found the courage to throw the metal fence post. If it had been Beverly, he would’ve looked to Ben or to Bill. If it had been Bill, he would’ve looked to Mike. 

But it had been Richie. Everyone was just staring, helpless—hurt. Eddie did what he had to do because Richie was _his_ to protect, just as he was Richie’s. 

“We have to get him out of here,” Richie had said, hushed tones all around while Eddie fought to hold on to consciousness.

“How are we supposed to do that, Richie?” Eddie didn’t know who had said it, but one of his friends had suggested they leave him for dead as the cavern began caving in. 

Richie dragged him out of the sewers on his back, nearly getting crushed—exhausting himself and nearly drowning. If Eddie remembered right, they barely even made it out of the house before it fell into the sinkhole. 

Richie was his to protect, and Myra sort of was, too… 

Maybe if he hadn’t fucking argued with Richie, maybe if he hadn’t kissed him, he could’ve avoided Myra’s call and just went home to her. That was all she wanted anyway. She knew he’d snuck out to go play with a friend, like his mother all those decades ago, and wanted him back—wanted him remorseful, wanted him broken, wanted him home.

Eddie couldn’t do that. 

He remembered the feeling of Richie’s lips on his in the bedroom, how warm and soft and invigorating they were—how _right_ they felt pressed against his own. 

Eddie tried to work up the courage to answer his phone, but then lost it at the last second.

He couldn’t tell her. He couldn’t do it. He was fucking chickenshit. 

Eddie shut the ringer off on his phone and tried to work, feeling cold and jittery even after getting himself a second cup of coffee. He successfully ran through one report before he heard the garage door opening. His heart immediately started to race as though it would be Myra coming in, not Richie.

Not Richie with bags upon bags of groceries.

“I know you said not to talk to you, but I promise I’m disinfecting my bags and Clorox-wiping the packaging of everything, okay? Don’t wanna get you sick.”

“Thanks,” Eddie called back, nodding a little because that was proper protocol. “Wait, they let you use your own bags?”

“Yeah. I bagged my own stuff, Eds. Self-checkout.”

“How’d you get in so early?” 

“You know, you’re making it really hard not to talk to you when you keep asking me questions,” Richie said. Eddie listened to him un-bag his produce and food, lots of boxes rattling and sloshing. 

“Stores don’t open until eight. How’d you get in?”

“Told them my partner was immunocompromised and I was risking our lives for some SpaghettiOs.”

Eddie’s whole face burned hot, the flush extending down his neck where it seared against the collar of his dress shirt. (In case he was needed on webcam, of course.)

“I’m fucking with you,” Richie said, appearing in the doorway. Eddie didn’t look back to reward him with any attention. “I’m friends with the guy who owns it. He let me shop with the little old ladies as long as I stayed away from the chemicals. Grammas need bleach.”

“That’s—That’s not so bad then. Did you wear a mask?”

“And gloves and shoe condoms and I had sanitizer in my fanny pack.”

“Richie, please. I’m trying to work,” Eddie grumbled.

“Fine—yes, I wore gloves and a mask and I didn’t cross-contaminate. I touched my wallet, but I just wiped it off with the Clorox wipe.”

“Thank you. That’s all I wanted to know. Now take your fucking shoes off because they carry viruses as well as your foot-funk, asshole.”

“Whatever,” Richie said, going back to the kitchen to finish disinfecting and putting away their groceries. “Oh—yeah, you didn’t answer my text so I didn’t know what flavor creamer to get you so I got plain and vanilla. I know, so exotic. And, uh, they had no rice milk at all. I even asked a guy.”

“That’s fine,” Eddie answered, sighing as he tried to read an email while Richie’s joke ‘told them my partner is immunocompromised’ echoed around in his head. 

“I got you this though. Is this good?” Richie came to him carrying a little blue and white carton. If it was soy milk, Eddie was going to beat him to death with it. “I hope it is. Cost, like, eight bucks.”

Eddie turned to look at him, examining the box without taking it into his own hands—at least not until Richie assured him he’d sanitized it. It did, faintly, smell like lavender Clorox. 

“Quinoa milk? That’s a _thing?”_ Eddie asked, flipping over the container to read the back. No soy, no gluten, no dairy, all organic, not processed in a facility that handled nuts. Eddie smiled at it, not sure if it was the novelty of the quinoa milk or the fact that Richie had worked so hard to find him something he could have. 

“Apparently. Is it okay? It says it doesn’t have gluten, but I have no fucking idea what quinoa is besides disgusting.”

Eddie gave him a little side-eye, then passed him the carton just as his phone lit up with another silent call from Myra.

“You… Gonna answer that?” Richie asked.

“No point. I need to get some work done…”

“Yeah, you do. Do they even sell bras for boobs that small?”

“Richie...”

“She figure it out?” Richie asked, taking back the quinoa milk Eddie shoved at him.

“Yes,” Eddie sighed, watching another notification for a voicemail pop up on his screen. 

“Listen, Eds… Shit. Look.” Richie kept sighing and stalling, clearly not wanting to say whatever it was he was trying to. “Yesterday… Yesterday wasn’t anything, you know? She’s your _wife,_ dude. I get that. I’m not… I’m not here to compete with that. She doesn’t need to know—”

“I meant what I said, dipshit. Now can I please get back to work?” Eddie felt so much tension building in every joint and muscle in his body as Richie just stood there with the quinoa milk in his hand, like he wanted to say something but didn’t have words. 

Maybe he wanted to _do_ something, but didn’t have the courage. Kiss Eddie’s head, maybe, like Eddie might’ve for Myra if she were having a rough morning—staring at herself self-consciously in her vanity mirror while trying on different shades of blush. He meant it, each and every time he told her she was beautiful, but she never seemed to believe him. 

What the fuck did Richie want to say to him?

He lingered a moment longer, then brushed his fingers against Eddie’s shoulder—like he wanted to squeeze it or tap him—only to pull away and scurry off to the kitchen a moment later. To Eddie, it felt like there had been less tension between them after they’d kissed—after they’d realized they’d kissed—and that moment had been pretty fucking tense. 

Still, Eddie did his best to work and ignore Myra’s calls while his brain tottered on the cusp of almost feeling like he could possible fall asleep. Richie hid out somewhere, definitely not on the same floor as Eddie, until lunchtime when he started rustling quietly around the kitchen. Before he’d even switched his Skype for Business over to “At Lunch,” Richie was at his side with a cup of coffee—vanilla coconut creamer, and not nearly enough—which he set down on the table. 

As he tried to step away, Eddie grabbed his hand and held it. He wasn’t able to look at him, a million thoughts making a whirlpool in his foggy head, but he pulled Richie’s hand to his mouth and kissed it, just above his knuckles. He lingered a moment, waiting to see what Richie would do—if anything. 

Honestly, he expected the man to cringe away and walk off.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, he heard Henry Bowers of all people, screaming at him from the grave. Calling him a sissy. Calling him faggot. Threatening to gut him.

And then Richie was pressing a soft kiss to Eddie’s temple and had pulled away. 

“I’m making lunch. Don’t want it to burn.”

As if on cue, Eddie’s phone lit up with another call from Myra. This one, he didn’t answer either.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Let me know what you think! Stay safe out there!


End file.
